


Professor Coldwater: Social Maladjustment 101

by Rubick



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Comeplay, Competence Kink, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Risks, Fast Sexual Burn, Hand porn, Happy Ending, I JUST LIKE HANDS OKAY, I'd Say I'm Sorry but I'm not, Like For Real It's So Self-Indulgent, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mutual Pining, Non-Canonical Character Death, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Parent Death, Past Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Professor Coldwater: Smut and Angst 101, Public Blow Jobs, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Quentin and Eliot's Canonically Poor Communication Skills, Rimming, Self-Indulgent, Sexting, So Many Teacher Puns, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher-Student Relationship, Top Eliot Waugh, Top Quentin Coldwater, slow emotional burn, thirsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 205,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick
Summary: "I’ve been thinking about you,” Eliot continues, and Quentin’s heart nearly stops in his chest. Warning bells, sirens, flashing signs—this is not good.Not good.“Well—don’t. Stop,” Quentin says. The top few buttons on Eliot's shirt are undone and how is he supposed to just be anadultand saynoto this?Eliot cracks a small smile, sliding just a little bit closer. "Don't stop?" he says.“Eliot—just—please go back to the bar. You don’t really want this.”Eliot frowns. “I’m a big boy,Professor,” he says, huffing out a breath. “I know what I want. The question is,” Eliot continues, Quentin holding his breath as Eliot leans into his space, “What do you want?”Quentin’s mouth goes dry as his brain spins with acceptable responses.For you to go back to Brakebills and sober up—A nice cold glass of water—A redo of the last five years—An actual responsible adult—but what comes out is, “What I want doesn’t matter.”Eliot’s face grows softer, the frown disappearing and his eyes searching Quentin’s face. “It does to me,” he says quietly. Cold fingers encircle Quentin's palm, and he closes his eyes as Eliot slots their fingers together and squeezes.
Relationships: Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi & Julia Wicker, William "Penny" Adiyodi & Quentin Coldwater, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker
Comments: 509
Kudos: 245





	1. Section 8.5 - Overview of Destruction Design

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my next longfic! This one started with the prompt “Professor Coldwater” and grew into… this. It’s just under halfway written, and the goal is to update once a week. That schedule may get stretched, but I currently have the first six chapters written. Unless the universe explodes (knock on wood, ‘cause yeah, that’s a thing these days), this story will be finished.
> 
> This universe is one where Quentin/Julia/Kady/Alice were all in the same class at Brakebills. Shit happens, and Quentin becomes a professor at Brakebills. Eliot/Margo/Todd are Brakebills students while Quentin is teaching. The non-canon character death occurs before this story begins, the ramifications of which will feature very heavily in the narrative and in flashbacks.
> 
> There are several nods to the books/changes from TV lore within this fic. Brakebills South lasts an entire semester, and as a parting gift every student that makes it through the trials comes back with their very own cacodemon in their back (that is not directly from the book, but a similar idea to how the books handle cacodemons). You know, "take this if you want to live" at Brakebills.
> 
> Many thanks to may amazing betas/friends [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi) and [The Auditty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuditty/pseuds/TheAuditty) for their never ending advice and cheer leading. Also to [Ambiguous Penny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbiguousPenny/pseuds/AmbiguousPenny) for their contributions and [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy) for the prompt and just general awesomeness.

_Quentin_

_Now_

“Quentin, please sit down.”

“I'm not going to fucking _sit down_ , Henry. You have to let me go back, I _need_ to _see_ him.”

“No. You seeing him is what got you into this… mess in the first place.”

Quentin snorts, running his hands through his hair. He can feel Penny and Pearl’s eyes on him, and he glances at Penny. His eyes are tight, worried, his mouth set in a thin line. Pearl’s face is much the same, although she’s alternating between looking at Quentin and flat out glaring at Penny. With the way her arms are crossed and how she’s leaning away from him, it looks like Quentin’s relationship—and probably his career—aren’t the only things in tatters.

 _Relationship_. What the fuck has he done.

He whirls on Henry, who’s sitting behind his fancy fucking desk, just like he’s done for the past twelve years. The Dean of Brakebills, the last stop on the road to ruin for too many magicians.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re fully capable of sweeping this under the rug just like you do with every other _shitty, fucked up_ thing that happens on this campus. After all the bodies you’ve hidden, dealing with a teacher fucking a student should be a piece of cake.”

Henry’s jaw tightens, and he inhales slowly, like he’s silently counting to ten in his own head. When he speaks, his voice is firm. Hard. 

“You didn’t just _fuck_ a student, though, did you, Quentin? If that was all it was, then sure, I could ‘deal with that’ easy enough. But that student _almost died_.”

Quentin’s eyes close, and he drops down into the chair in front of Henry’s desk. All of the fight drains out of him, leaving only despair in its wake. He can’t—he can’t fucking believe he’s here. _Again_. And at the same time, he can. He knew. He knew with every fucking choice he made, this is where it would all end.

But he’s alive. He’s _alive_ . He hates Quentin, but he’s fucking _alive_ to hate him.

He breathes through the sting of tears, swallows hard. “You _have_ to let me _see_ him,” he says again. “Please.”

“He will be fine,” Henry says, and Quentin can hear Penny shuffling behind him, pacing. “He was found in time, and he’ll be back in class by next week.”

At that, Quentin's eyes fly open. “He’ll be back in class? You won’t… _do_ anything to him? Because this was _all me_ , Henry. He had _nothing_ to do with it, I was the one that started it all, and he just—he didn’t—”

Henry chuckles. “I very much doubt that anyone can make Eliot Waugh do anything he doesn’t want to do. And no, we won’t be… disciplining him. In that way. His time here at Brakebills has been troubled enough, and he is a very talented magician. William has agreed to... keep an eye on Eliot until he graduates.”

The relief hits Quentin so hard it makes his body sag in the chair. Eliot had nearly died because of him. And if he’d had it all taken away, magic, Brakebills… there’s no way Quentin could live with himself. He’s already straddling that line, tiptoeing down it the same way he has every fucking day of his life.

Henry clears his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t do the same for you, Quentin.”

_Here it comes._

“There’s no mistaking your brilliance. You’re an amazing magician. But your behavior this term—cancelling classes, your complete disregard for the professional dress code, the drinking—”

Quentin hears Penny snort behind him. “You’re gonna lecture him on drinking, Henry?”

Henry glares up at Penny, and then turns back to Quentin. “This latest indiscretion—I can’t push it aside. I could send you to Brakebills South with Maykovsky—”

“No,” Quentin says immediately. _Fuck no_.

“—but I think that would do more harm than good. I know this year has been a… difficult one for you. I wish I could have done more for you.” He pauses, clears his throat.

Quentin stares at the wall as he reaches in his pocket, wraps his fingers are the cool metal of the pocket watch that he’s carried with him for the past day.

“I’m sorry Quentin, but—you’re fired.”

~~~

tbc in Chapter 2: Section 1.1 - Introduction to Minor Mending


	2. Section 1.1 - Introduction to Minor Mending

_Five Months Ago_

_Fall_

_Quentin_

_I am so fucking late._

Quentin is dodging through students, his glasses bobbing on his face and his messenger bag thumping against his thigh, hoping the soles of his only pair of nice shoes don’t slip on the pavement (he’s suddenly _so over_ his need to make a nice first impression, who the fuck cares really—he’s the professor, he can wear hoodies every day if he wants to) as he alternates between speed-walking and full on jogging to get to Telekinesis and Psychokinesis building. His classroom is there and, of course, it’s all the way at the top on the third fucking floor. His alarm didn’t go off (or he’d turned it off, who knew), and he was now just about five minutes late for his first class of the semester. _Fan-fucking-tastic._

Even though Quentin does actually prepare for each new term, the first day always manages to sneak up on him. 

Typically a few weeks before, he gets a rush of ‘new project’ energy, and he’ll be a flurry of papers and plans, getting all of his shit together for the new year. Inevitably though, that rush will peter out, leaving behind the usual weariness, exhaustion, and fog that clogs his mind on a daily basis.

He did get that burst of energy this year, but it had died off after only a day or two—just enough time for him to complete a few items on his to-do list. He had a vague memory of looking at his checklist on his computer (well, the one Julia had put together with him after his disastrous first week as an actual professor four years ago when Henry and Pearl had given him his own class waaaaay before he was ready), looking at the date, realizing he had two more weeks to go, and shutting his laptop. He’d gone to a bar in Brooklyn (via the portal in the teacher dorm that linked to a bodega on the Lower East Side—hardly any teachers actually lived on campus, preferring to live in the city and portal in daily—it was all very ‘Ministry of Magic,’ in Quentin’s opinion), and gotten pleasantly drunk. He’d meant to pick the list back up the next day, but apparently that hadn’t happened...

Thank the Almighty that Penny stuck his head into Quentin’s room the Friday before, interrupting a serious session of staring at the ceiling, questioning why Quentin had missed the all-staff that day. Quentin’s head swung to the calendar on his wall, which gave him zero help since he wasn’t exactly the ‘X off each day’ type of calendar-owner, so he then looked at his phone which happily confirmed, _oh shit you’re two hours late for a meeting_ and _hey btw, classes start in two days and you’ve done fuck all._

Which isn’t completely true, thanks to Past-Quentin’s ‘new project’ energy burst- he’d already sorted and updated his lesson plans, and had searched for any recent papers published on the spellwork theory behind matter manipulation. That meant he spent the weekend frantically sprucing up his classroom (which consisted of a few cleaning tuts, updating the circumstance tables for a new year, prepping his materials for the first few weeks of classes, and making sure his snack drawer was adequately prepared), revising his syllabus, and reviewing his rosters, among other things.

Being late was no one’s fault but his. Much like everything else in his life. When he knew he had an important day and needed sleep, he’d pop a sleeping pill and fall into bed early—usually it was enough to keep the insomnia and dreams at bay at least for a night. But last night he’d forgotten—his brain had been buzzing after he checked his class rosters for the first time, and his heart had skipped a beat when he saw the name _Eliot Waugh_. 

Which was ridiculous, really. Quentin had never even had a _conversation_ with Eliot, so there was no reason for him to have any reaction other than the typical wonderings of _will-this-student-be-a-pain-in-my-ass_ at seeing this particular physical kid listed in his class for the semester.

Sure, he’d seen Eliot, and his ever-present partner-in-crime-of-being-ridiculously-hot, Margo Hanson, more than a few times on campus—the student body was very small, after all. He was hard to miss, with his long legs, strong jaw, brilliant smile, and a captivating demeanor that charmed most anyone he came into contact with. Eliot had also been the subject of the rumor mill the past year—well, more than he usually was (the cottage parties, which were epic even in Quentin’s time as a student, had reached legendary status as soon as Eliot and Margo had shown up. The average GPA of the entire physical magic discipline had taken a hit their first year). There had been some kind of incident with an alumni that had ended badly. No further details were offered (as per Brakebills policy regarding traumatic incidents, which Quentin was unfortunately _very_ familiar with—if the result is not a net positive for the school, it never happened), and Quentin hadn’t bothered to dig for them. So Quentin had seen Eliot—but he hadn’t really _noticed_ him until he’d stumbled across his profile one night when perusing Grindr.

Eliot stood out immediately among the sea of smoldering faces and shirtless torsos—Quentin can remember his mouth actually going dry when he realized who he was staring at on his little phone screen. Eliot was standing on a beach, in a set of very tiny swim trunks that left little to the imagination (and, from what he could make out, Quentin would need a very… large imagination to fully capture what secrets those shorts held), and a simple linen shirt, unbuttoned, revealing a smattering of chest hair and a flat, smooth belly. The late afternoon sun playing on his face, an easy smile gracing his lips as dark curls fell errantly over his forehead, Quentin had stared down at his picture, his heart jerking in his chest as he imagined matching with Eliot, and then maybe meeting up at a bar for a drink, chatting and laughing. Maybe there would be an easy chemistry, the likes that he hadn’t experienced in… well, how long didn’t matter. Maybe he’d touch Eliot’s arm, lean in, eyes meeting and breath mingling, before suggesting they go somewhere more private...

He yanked himself out of that fantasy _real fast_ , reminding himself that Eliot was not only years younger than he was, but also a student. At the school that saw fit to give Quentin a chance when he was at his lowest. He had enough problems in his life without adding unemployment to the list.

He swiped past Eliot without even allowing himself to glance at the rest of his pictures. He didn’t even think twice when, that same night, he met up with a tall guy with greenish-hazel eyes, dark hair, and a slim, athletic build at one of his regular bars in the city. His name was… Kyle? He’d smelled like Axe body spray and gave a lousy blowjob, but he was nice enough. For a night.

And now Quentin will be seeing Eliot every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, for ninety minutes, along with eleven other students in his section. Which is fine. Eliot is just another student, and Quentin is perfectly capable of treating him as such, no matter how ridiculously attractive he finds him.

Quentin blows through the main building doors and takes the stairs two steps at a time—the elevator is way too slow. He’d skipped his normal morning coffee, which he's already paying for, but it’s the first day for third year students that know the drill—he’ll toss out the syllabus, do a few demonstrations, see where they’re at, and cut them loose. Just like every other year. Then he can do the same for his afternoon class, cut out early, and go have a drink. And maybe something else, at least to help him actually sleep tonight—he thinks he still has a few potions from Josh; he’d try to remember to text him sometime today for more. As he passes through the landing on the second floor, he catches a glimpse of the Phosphoromancy Lab through the window, and his breath catches just for a second, as it always did when he saw the lab. A faded image of blonde hair and startling eyes smiling wickedly as she twirls her hands, and a blue flame erupts within, casting a sinister hue over her face… 

He moves his feet faster and shoves the image away, finally making it up the last flight of stairs, practically bursting into his class, talking as he walks to his desk and pulls his messenger bag over his head.

“Hello, everyone, sorry I’m late—I am your teacher, Professor Coldwater,” he says all in a jumble as he thumps his well-worn messenger bag down on his desk, finally glancing up to look at his class. There are twelve sets of eyes looking back at him, and he feels that twinge of nerves in his belly that he hasn’t had time to think about yet— _what are you even doing, you can hardly get out of bed, let alone teach anyone anything other than how to fuck up their own life._ He clears his throat, his eyes darting around as he moves to stand in front of his desk, clasping his hands together. “Welcome to Minor Mending.”

He pulls his hands apart, leaning back on his desk as he smiles tightly and his eyes sweep over the room, recognizing some students. There’s Cecily, the nervous nature student that sometimes comes with Josh when he makes his weekly drop to Quentin. Steve, a knowledge student that Quentin often sees reading under a tree in the quad. Todd, an eternally smiling physical kid sitting straight up in his chair, right in the front row. Julian, who's taking this class for the second time after flunking it last spring (if he doesn’t actually practice the movements there's no way he’ll pass this term either; he can hardly mend two pieces of playdoh together)... and there, off to the left, is Margo. She's incredibly gorgeous, in that glamorous, untouchable way. Her dark hair frames her expressive face, which is currently eyeing him with such boredom he should probably be offended. Anytime Quentin sees her on campus, 90% of the time with Eliot by her side, he wonders how much time it takes to look that perfect. Now, he thinks she just falls out of bed every morning, ready to conquer the world in a tight skirt and sharp eyeliner.

And right behind her, leisurely tapping his pen against his desk as he reclines in his seat, is Eliot.

Dressed in a white button-down oxford shirt under a brown wool vest, a knit tie cinched loosely around his neck, he looks just as delectable as Quentin expected. His curls are loose, falling over one side of his forehead, and Quentin _just knows_ that if he were ever to reach over and brush them back, they would be impossibly soft against his fingers. Eliot’s eyes, lined in a dark charcoal that makes their hazel color pop, are amused as they brush over Quentin.

Quentin clears his throat and yanks his gaze to the middle of the class, willing his face not to heat up as he starts talking, _you know, like teachers do when they are teaching the fucking class_ . What is even wrong with him; after a year of assisting and four years of teaching you’d think he’d have his shit together enough to not let one set of pretty eyes completely derail him. Inhaling, he refocuses and tries to settle into his lecture. _Just pretend that he’s Julia or Penny or… someone not stupidly attractive._

“By now, you’ve all passed Practical Applications and Fundamentals of Matter Manipulation—or you should have to be in this class—and now you’re ready to put the theory you’ve learned into the reality of spellcasting.” He steps behind his desk as he speaks, removing his beige and black houndstooth jacket—it matches the vest he wears underneath. Combined with his khakis and white shirt, the top two buttons undone, it’s one of his favorite teaching outfits. He has, like, five of them—teaching outfits, that he wears on the days he really gives a shit. Most other days he wears slacks with some kind of pullover shirt that’s not a tee but just ‘business casual’ enough for him to skirt past the ‘faculty dress code’ that Fogg is so fond of. When he really isn't feeling it, he’ll wear jeans. If he shows up at all.

He drapes his jacket over the back of his desk chair and returns to his spot in front of the desk, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, his knuckles brushing the stubble on his chin—because of course, he didn’t have time to shave this morning. Most of his students are looking at him expectantly (except Eliot, who still has that bemused smile on his face, his eyes tracing up and down Quentin’s form in a way that Quentin just _cannot_ think about right now). Quentin forces his gaze away from the left side of the class. He rests his hands on the desk he’s leaning on, slightly gripping the edge- he has a tendency to talk with his hands, and while he knows he can’t keep his gesturing contained for very long, he can at least make it past day one without revealing all of his weird teaching habits.

“So-um, this semester, we’ll be going over the basics of practical mending spell application and theory. Which can apply to physical objects or the metaphysical. I know that most of you are probably expecting to learn how to fix broken dishes or something—and we will cover that—but what you will learn here can be applied to-to _so many_ levels of spellwork-” he can feel his hands just _itching_ to move and he clamps his fingers down on the edge of the desk harder- “like, seriously, you can use the framework you’ll learn here to combine and _create_ new spells and develop architecture that-that hasn’t even been thought of yet.”

He can feel his lips quirking up, the rush in his veins that comes anytime he speaks about magic—even after all these years, and the pain that magic has brought him… it’s still a surprising, mystifying force in his life. It’s the only thing that could ever give him enough confidence to stand in front of a group of people that not only expected him to talk for ninety minutes, but for him to say anything useful enough to qualify as _teaching_ them. His first week in charge of his own class, he was so nervous he could only eat late in afternoon, within that bubble of relief that formed after he had the day’s classes completed, but before he remembered that he’d have to do it all again the next day. It had taken him a few days to realize that hey, he actually knew what he was talking about.

He had been working with an illusion student on her positioning, and it was suddenly the easiest thing in the world to look at her hands and know immediately what was off with her tut. His nerves had just faded away, replaced with confidence he hadn’t felt since that last Push game the summer before fourth year. Kady had brought him and Julia to a shady warehouse in some run-down area of Queens where a weekly tournament took place—he’d cleaned the place out and then they’d booked it, spending basically all of their winnings at an upscale bar that none of them could usually afford. They’d been banned from the NYC Push circuit after that.

Quentin nods at his class (totally not taking a half-second long glance at the third desk down on the left-side row and noticing a soft smile in his direction) and stands up, walking around to the other side of the desk to open his bag. “I’ll pass around the syllabus, and then we’ll see where you’re at…” He rummages through his bag, pulling out his folder, opening it and reaching in to pull out… one copy of the syllabus he’d printed out yesterday. He was going to make copies before class this morning… good going, Coldwater.

“Um, just one second,” he says, hearing a few titters from the class as he sets the paper down on the desk. His eyes flash up, his mouth in a thin line, his mood swinging from excited to irritated in a second. He’s aware of his reputation as the professor that doesn’t quite have his shit together, and while he knows his odds of changing anyone’s mind on that are slim, he’d like to not prove it on the first goddamn day.

“I can go make some copies for you, Professor Coldwater,” Todd supplies helpfully from the front row.

Quentin glances up at him and shakes his head. Sighing, he raises and crosses his hands in a practiced motion, and then one paper becomes twenty. The magic feels good as it ebbs through his fingers and up his palm, tingling in that familiar way that he sometimes wonders how he ever made it to twenty-two years old without even knowing it existed.

He can hear a few hushed whispers from the class as he picks up the papers and starts passing them out. “Standard syllabus, there will be practical and written exams as listed, as well as office hours—shit!”

He was just handing Eliot (of course it was fucking Eliot) a few papers to pass down his row when the entire pile had just slipped out of his hands, spreading out on the floor between the wall and Eliot’s desk. He quickly crouchs down to grab them, just as Eliot leans down from his seat to pick up a few near his desk. They both reach for the same paper at the same time, their fingers brushing, and the magic that Quentin thought had dissipated returns in a warm surge up his fingers, through his palm, shooting up his arm, goosebumps rising the entire way. His mouth drops as Eliot’s fingers spasm against his own, and his wide brown eyes meet Eliot’s curious hazel ones, just inches away. This close, he can see that they’re a bit more on the green side of hazel… Quentin’s belly is a tight, warm ball, and he looks back at the ground as he snatches up the remaining papers and stands back up.

He hands the rest of them to Camilla, an illusion student with short platinum hair who gives him a broad smile as he hands her the rest of the papers to pass around. Exhaling, he walks back up to the front of the class, rubbing his hands together. _Ok, get your head together, Quentin. Let’s see what we’re working with_. 

“I’m going to go through a few minor physical mendings, and then each one of you will attempt the same.” He did this at the start of every term—most students had enough casting experience and muscle memory in their hands by now that they could pick up the simpler tuts easily enough, but the more intricate the item you were mending, the harder it was to hold the concentration and movements. It was also something that just required practice—Quentin was at the point where it only took seconds for him to feel the broken shards through his magic, could hear them whispering that they wanted to live and only he could make that happen. There wasn’t much he was good at, but he knew that if even the statue of David was broken into a million pieces, if they laid at his feet, he could make them whole again. 

He rummages around in a closet, pulling out a small box—inside were several dishes and vases, each finely cut into two or three large pieces, separated into ziploc bags. If anyone would look closely, they could see fine, thin lines crisscrossing their surfaces from years of mending. He also hauls out a six-foot length of thick rope, which he tosses on his desk. He can feel the curious eyes on him as he deftly uses magic to slice a few short pieces of the rope. He steps forward and lays the pieces on the desk of a student in the front row—Audrey, of the nature discipline, looks down at the rope, and then back up to Quentin. The anxious look on her face shows that she is not particularly excited that he picked her desk for a demonstration.

He motions for the other students to come closer, and they do, gathering around. The rope is actually one of the most complex mendings that can still be considered minor—it looks like you’re turning two pieces into one, but really you are connecting hundreds, thousands of strands together. The movements are the same though, just with a slight change in circumstances, and honestly he likes to start off with the more complex—it almost always impresses and gets the class excited to try it on their own.

He performs the spell without explanation—bending and twisting his fingers, rotating his wrists and the two pieces of rope float a few inches off the desk surface, coming together and marrying every individual thread as the air vibrates and almost seems to sing with contentment as the length of rope, now completely whole, slowly drifts back to the surface of the desk. 

Quentin steps back, and Audrey picks up the rope, giving it an experimental tug. “Looks brand new,” she comments, her blue eyes turning back to Quentin. “Not a mark on it.”

Quentin nods, and grabs one of the ziploc bags. As he pulls out a bowl that has been neatly cut in half (he spent a few hours of his Saturday magically slicing apart various dishes just for this exercise; it was rather cathartic), he starts explaining the basic mending movements to the class. He takes them through the poppers a few times and describes the circumstances for smaller items, and then he turns them loose.

Everyone grabs a broken item from the box, and returns to their desk to give it a go. He expects the physical kids will pick it up quickly, as mending goes hand in hand with their discipline. Other disciplines could go either way. Quentin helps Audrey with her movements and smiles as the mug she’s working on reforms—a bit crooked, but it’s progress. He passes by Julian, who is still crossing his index finger the wrong way. _Jesus, Moretti must have passed him through the fundamentals just because she got tired of looking at his face_. He’s then next to Margo and Eliot, and as he looks at their work, he’s not surprised to see two perfectly fused vases on their desks.

“Nice,” he compliments as he picks up Margo’s. It’s a blue and white ceramic piece, now perfectly formed, no lines or cracks. “Great work.”

“Got anything harder?” she asks with a sly smile, and out of the corner of his eye, Quentin can see Eliot’s bored expression turn into a slight grin.

Quentin clears his throat, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “Well, the more intricate the item, or the more it is damaged, the harder the mending gets. We start off with just two to three pieces, and then work up to more complex-”

He’s interrupted by Margo picking up the vase off the side of her desk and dropping it to the floor, where it instantly shatters into dozens of pieces. Ceramic shards scatter across the class, and a few students jump at the loud noise. He can hear Eliot mutter, “Jesus, Bambi.” Heads turn in their direction, and Quentin’s eyebrows are in his hairline. _Well, that’s a first._

Margo gets up and takes a step away from her desk, carefully avoiding any pieces on the floor. Quentin watches as she raises her hands, her eyes narrowing as she quickly and precisely moves her fingers in a casting Quentin knows well. The fragments start to rise from the floor, and they begin to move together, slowly but surely. The entire class is watching, but that seems to make no difference to Margo.

He sees the mistake before she does—her positioning is slightly off, and he knows the moment she realizes, as her mouth thins out and she mutters, “Shit,” as the pieces harshly fall back to the floor. She frowns at the shards—they’re now at least in a little pile on the side of her desk, but they are definitely still a collection of sharp, ceramic pieces and nowhere close to a beautiful vase.

“That’s ok,” Quentin says quickly, not wanting to discourage her. (Even though he is a _little_ pleased that her attempt to show off fell flat. It seemed like every year someone wanted to prove that they were smarter than what a class titled ‘Minor Mending’ had to offer...) “I appreciate the effort. Here, let me show you.”

Standing in front of her, he shows her the proper positioning for something so broken—“index here, even breathing, hold the stance until you feel it give,” and she tries again. The shards rise up, and the vase is reformed—granted, with a few bumps and slightly crooked, but with more focus and practice, Quentin is sure Margo will be more than capable of mending all the broken vases and dishes he suspects she may hurl at anyone that gets in her way. She smiles at him as he plucks the vase out of the air and hands it back to her. 

“Great job,” he tells her. Then he moves on to Eliot—he has a gorgeous etched glass vase on his desk, covered with a kind of psychedelic swirl pattern. Quentin picks it up and inspects it— he’d sliced it right down the middle, and he can see it’s now perfectly formed—the pattern matches exactly, with no blemishes in sight. It looks like Eliot is a natural and probably won’t need any extra tutoring… _too bad_. 

_Get a fucking grip_ , he admonishes himself. “Nice work,” he tells Eliot, setting the vase back down on his desk. 

Eliot doesn’t say anything, he just looks up and meets Quentin’s eyes and smiles, his eyes still holding that same curious look he had when helping Quentin pick up the fallen papers. Quentin looks down at him for just a second too long, and then clears his throat and moves on. He can still feel Eliot’s eyes on his back as he goes back to his desk.

The rest of class is uneventful—no one else throws their project to the floor or attempts to jump out the window to prove they can mend it on the way down, anyway. He does let them go early, with a warning that they won’t actually be doing any more mending in class for a while—matter composition and spell theory will take up the next month. He’s smiling as the students depart, overall pleased with the first class. He’s sitting down to prepare for his next one when a shadow falls over his desk. He looks up into the smiling faces of Margo and Eliot.

“Hi,” he says. “Did you have a question…?” He focuses on Margo, even though he can feel Eliot’s gaze on him like a physical itch.

Margo and Eliot exchange a look that Quentin can’t quite figure out, and Margo says, “Yeah. What’s the toughest thing you ever had to mend?”

Quentin frowns, and sits back in his chair. No one had ever asked him that before. He presses his knuckles against his mouth while he considers. “Huh. Well… the grandfather clock in Fogg’s office got damaged pretty badly once—” he cuts the thought off as he recalls that Henry had broken it himself with a blast of battle magic after a drunken brawl with Mayakovsky over god knows what—“and that took a while to fix. Lots of glass, gears—had to focus on one component at a time. Ummm…” He taps his fingers together as he runs through his mental catalogue of mending—which is fairly non-exciting, save a few memories he’d rather not dredge up (at least when he was awake and had a choice). “I dunno. I’d have to think about it.”

“Ever have anything you couldn’t mend?” Eliot asks.

Quentin looks to him, but instead of hazel eyes he sees a dark sky in a dirty, abandoned parking lot, as he crawls on the ground, dirt and rocks sliding under his fingernails, his hands shaking too badly to form the tuts as tears clog his eyes, Julia’s soft hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from a small pile of broken wood with lines and symbols burned into them.

He sits up straighter in his chair. “What did you two need?” he asks shortly. 

He can see the surprise on their faces at his abrupt mood change, Eliot suddenly looking uncertain. Margo frowns and then says, “Well I wanted to work on the movements you showed me today, for the vase. Would you mind showing me—us again?”

He looks from Margo, to Eliot, and back again. He can see a look of contrition in Margo’s eyes, and he realizes she must feel bad for her display earlier, or maybe she’s just one of those obsessive students that wants to be at the top of the class. He can see Eliot starting to frown, to lean in to Margo to probably suggest they leave, and Quentin is filled with a strong desire to keep him there, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

“Sure,” he says, standing up. “Um, I guess we can break another vase—”

“Oh, let’s do something harder,” she says, her sly grin back in place. Quentin’s brow furrows as she reaches over, and plucks Eliot’s silver timepiece out of his front vest pocket. She places it on his desk, and then grabs the paperweight that every Brakebills teacher has on their desk—a heavy, black iron replica of the school crest

Quentin’s eyebrows raise in alarm just as Eliot’s mouth drops open, but before either of them can actually say anything, Margo lifts the paperweight and brings it down full force on the watch. Tiny bits of metal and plastic shoot out in every direction, and when she picks up the iron crest, there’s Eliot's pocket watch… a lot flatter and in a lot more pieces than it was five seconds ago.

 _I probably need to nail down the furniture before she destroys it_ , Quentin thinks as he stares at the watch in shock. He looks at Eliot, who seems to be in the same state he is— his mouth is hanging open, eyes wide as he looks from his newly-destroyed watch to Margo and back again.

“What the fuck, Margo?!” Eliot exclaims. “I’m sorry, she’s…” words seem to fail him as he helplessly looks at Quentin.

“Oh, come off it,” Margo says, carefully putting the paper weight back on the desk. “You got that thing for ten bucks off Lovelady; it doesn’t even work.” Turning to Quentin, she says, “So how do you fix that?”

Quentin laughs incredulously as he shakes his head. Revising his earlier thought about Margo—she doesn’t fall out of bed every morning. He bets that she leaps out, ready to attack the day as if it’s bearing down upon her with a sword and shield. “Anyone ever told you that you have some destructive tendencies?”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Okay,” Quentin says, quickly, not wanting to give her the opportunity to explain exactly why she’s been told that. The evidence of it is scattered all over his desk. Eliot is still standing there, looking less befuddled and more irritated as he glances down at Margo. He catches Quentin’s eye, his expression full of silent apology for his friend. The pleading look on his face makes Quentin smile, and he feels his spirits lighten. This has certainly been the most memorable first day of classes he’s had yet.

“I— _we_ can fix this,” Quentin says. “You’ll want the same movements we did in class today, but with a few variations, depending on the circumstances” He walks them through the tuts, and steps back to let Margo give it a try.

As Quentin expects, she has even less success than she did when she smashed the vase. She can pull the pieces together, but working out the finer connections is beyond her skill level. She frowns as the pieces collapse in a little pile on his desk.

“This is really advanced, major mending stuff, really,” Quentin tells her. “I get that you really wanna… go the distance, but it’ll come with practice. Work on the tuts before next class… just don’t destroy the cottage in the meantime? I have a lot of good memories there.” He smiles as he imagines Margo smashing and failing to fix every fragile item in her student dorm.

“Can I try?” Quentin feels his pulse skip at hearing Eliot’s voice, and he looks over to see him tapping his fingers nervously on the edge of his desk. His eyes are nervous, but his face is determined.

“Sure. Be my guest.” Quentin steps back as Eliot turns to face the pulverized watch on his desk, inhaling as he lifts his hands.

Quentin has an excuse for staring at Eliot’s hands—he’s the teacher, and he’s here to correct Eliot’s form and, you know, _teach_ him magic. Quentin is grateful for that excuse, because there was no way he’d be able to focus on anything else. Even as the remains of the watch hover a few inches above his desk, the tiny, shattered pieces catching the late morning sun that streams through the windows, searching for a connection that will make them whole again, all Quentin can see are long, twisting fingers dancing in an intricate display that Quentin wants, _desires_ , to be just for him.

Eliot’s hands are large—one palm could probably span his belly, or the back of his neck, with a thumb buried in his hair while a pinkie strokes the skin just underneath his neck, reaching down to his upper back. He feels a chill creep up his spine at the thought of those lithe, precise fingers, right now moving quickly and expertly through the air, commanding magic that Quentin swears is thrumming in his own veins, gripping the nape of his neck, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. 

He swallows hard as Eliot’s lips purse in concentration. He forces himself to look away, at the watch—what the fuck is wrong with him? Eliot’s just an attractive man, no different from the many others Quentin has managed to be right next to, _inside even_ , without losing his fucking shit.

_Jesus. I have got to get laid._

He’s brought back to his classroom by Eliot’s sigh of annoyance, and he registers that those lovely hands have stopped moving and have dropped down to Eliot’s sides. Glancing at the watch, it is still a pile of metal and plastic—granted, it’s a tidier pile of metal and plastic—but it’s definitely not a pocket watch.

His eyes flicker back up to Eliot, who flexes his ( _strong_ ) fingers, and then shrugs his shoulders as he looks at Quentin. His expression is unconcerned, amused even. “Gave it my best shot, Professor.”

The tingle that shoots through Quentin’s _entire body_ as that last word falls from Eliot’s lips is entirely unexpected, electric, worrisome, and downright _dirty_ as he abruptly turns away from Eliot and Margo and stands behind his desk. As if the wooden piece of furniture is enough of a barrier to prevent his thoughts from galloping outside of this sunny classroom and into a dark, soft room that he only unlocks late at night, alone or with some man whose name he’s forgotten by the morning light.

“I have no doubt that by the end of the semester, you two will be able to fix most anything that may somehow—” he looks to Margo, “meet an unfortunate end under a paperweight.” The corner of Margo’s mouth perks up, and Quentin lifts his arms, allowing muscle memory to take over as he walks through the tuts. He keeps his eyes on the watch, even as the desire to see Eliot’s face is almost overpowering. He doesn’t _need_ to look at the watch, by now he could do this with his eyes closed and probably his hands tied behind his back (something to test, he notes), but he feels so unraveled by Eliot, that if he looks at him, the heat behind Quentin’s eyes will be unmistakable.

It takes a minute or two, but eventually a solid, silver pocket watch sits on the table in front of them. As Quentin looks at the watch, he sees it’s a lot more complex than he first thought—it’s a beautiful timepiece, really. It has a few extra dials, and what looks like a star chart and the phases of the moon. Many experienced magicians would have trouble putting this back together properly.

Quentin lowers his hands, and Eliot reaches forward, picking it up and turning it over. Quentin allows himself one last gaze at those fingers before looking up at the students, a tight smile on his face. Margo is looking at Eliot, grinning smugly, and Eliot—he’s shifting uncomfortably in place, clearing his throat as he quickly stuffs the watch in his vest pocket.

“Thank you, Professor,” he says, in his lilting voice, a slight emphasis on the last word, and Quentin quickly sits down in his desk chair, sliding closer to the desk. Eliot really needs to stop calling him that.

“You-you can call me Quentin.” _What the fuck?_ “I’m fine with my students calling me by my first name… Professor Coldwater is a bit of a mouthful.”

Margo’s smile widens. “I bet it is.”

Before Quentin can react to _that_ , Eliot reaches over and grabs Margo’s hand, pulling her away. “Okay,” Eliot says quickly, “Thanks, Prof—uh, Quentin.” _Shit, that is not any better._

“Bambi,” he continues, walking over to their desks, “Let’s go. Unless there’s anything else of mine you’d like to destroy before lunch?” Quentin’s ears perk up at that— _Bambi_. It’s the second time Eliot has called her that; must be a nickname. One glance at Margo’s wide eyes, and it's not much of a mystery where it came from.

She grins as she grabs her bag. “I can think of a few things.” Turning to Quentin, she waves a few fingers, “See you Wednesday, _Quentin_.” She’s out the door, Eliot hot on her heels. Quentin watches them go, Eliot shooting him one last glance over his shoulder as he disappears into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Quentin leans over his desk, elbows pressing into the wood, head in his hands.

_I am so fucked._

~~~

The rest of the day was much less eventful than his first class—Quentin feels he was much more… composed in his second class of the day. Which was only because he’d already had one class under his belt, and had absolutely nothing to do with the absence of a tall and ridiculously magnetic physical kid.

He only had one class on Tuesdays and Thursdays—it was two hours long, and didn’t start until one in the afternoon, so no need to make sure he went to bed ‘at an appropriate hour.’ Which was laughable—he was rarely in bed before midnight, and hardly ever asleep before 2AM.

He’d functioned on four hours of sleep a night for years. Not for lack of trying. He’d gone to bed early, late, stopped screens hours before bedtime, gotten black out curtains… nothing helped. He’d lay awake for hours, his mind just refusing to shut the fuck up long enough for him to actually rest. Sleeping pills would help, but he couldn’t do that too often; he already put too much medicine and various recreational chemicals into his body as it was. Usually, he’d eventually fall into a troubled sleep, but rarely was it ever restful. And if the insomnia didn’t keep him awake, the nightmares did.

His cocktail of anxiety and antidepressants, monitored by Lipson out of the clinic, helped some, but Quentin knew there was no pill that could fix him. As it should be, really. He deserved to suffer every night, tossing and turning, remembering, sometimes trembling all over as his dreams left him sweating and shouting in his bed. He’d woken up Penny his first week in the apartments from his screams, and after that he’d made sure silencing wards on his room were locked down tight.

He grabs dinner at the school dining hall and heads back to his dorm. It’s deserted, which is usual. He changes into jeans, a t-shirt and hoodie (his typical non-teaching uniform), and is sitting on his bed texting Julia when he hears a soft knock on his door.

He calls out “It’s open,” and the door opens, revealing Penny Adiyodi standing in the doorway. Penny is the closest thing Quentin has to a friend on the Brakebills staff… which isn’t saying much, since they still kind of dislike each other. Penny’s last year as a student at Brakebills was Quentin’s first year, so they hadn’t really crossed paths until Quentin was hired on as a Teaching Assistant. He’d been placed with Professor Pearl Sunderland in the first-year Practical Applications class, where he graded papers and took attendance and got her coffee. Penny seemed to _always_ be around, at the end of classes or during breaks, talking to Pearl, giving Quentin exasperated looks and rolling his eyes, and just generally being stupidly annoying. That was Penny’s second year as a Brakebills professor, working with Psychic students.

Penny’s discipline made him a valuable commodity to Brakebills. He was a talented psychic, and very rare variety of one at that—a Traveler.He could transport himself anywhere on Earth (and, some speculated, off Earth as well). Quentin used to wonder why someone with such abilities would tie himself down to Brakebills, but when he’d seen Penny kissing Pearl in her classroom one day when he’d returned back from lunch a few minutes early, that mystery had been solved. Apparently his frequent presence hadn’t been to just annoy Quentin to death.

He still wasn’t really sure why Penny spent some nights in the apartments—he was pretty sure Pearl and Penny lived together at least most nights. When he first moved in, he thought Penny stuck around to keep an eye on him… and maybe that was the case. Quentin hadn’t spent too much time wondering about it—there were many more things for him to spend him time tormenting himself about.

“How’d today go?” Penny asks, not moving from the doorway, his dark eyes flickering over Quentin’s form, half-sitting on his bed, one foot on the floor with his phone in his hand. Quentin sets his phone on his nightstand, a half-composed text to Julia bright on the screen.

“It was good,” Quentin says, actually meaning it. “Interesting group this year.” His mind flickers to Margo, the vase fracturing all over the floor, and a decimated watch on his desk. Eliot’s hazel eyes, his fingers circling and flexing. He can’t keep the small smile from creeping on his face.

Penny smiles as well, the relief clear on his face. That darkens Quentin’s mood a bit—that a good day for him, a genuine smile is cause enough for celebration. He looks down at his hands, and then back up at Penny, trying to keep the smile on his face. He fails. 

“How about you?”

“Good, good,” Penny says, leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. “I’m glad today went well—usually I can hear you some at the start of term, but today you’re locked down.”

Quentin’s throat tightens as he looks over at his desk across the room, the bulletin board above it, covered in random notes, spellwork, and a few pictures Julia had printed and pinned up for him. His eyes stray to one down in the corner, taken during his second year… he quickly looks away.

When Quentin had first joined the faculty, when he wasn’t keeping Penny awake with his nighttime screams, he was keeping him annoyed with his ‘extremely loud’ thoughts. His first year as a staff member at Brakebills would have been a hard year for anyone, with what he’d been through, but the added stress of the new job (no matter how easy Pearl had made it for him that first year), the therapy he was dragging his feet through, the medication adjustments, and the fact that his main support system was no longer just across the campus… it had been one of the hardest years of his life.

Quentin had been stretched out on his bed one Wednesday afternoon, his earbuds in at full volume, blazed out of his mind, when Penny had come barging into his room, yanking Quentin’s pillow out from under his head and opening a window.

_“How the fuck are you breathing?” Penny opened another window, and then moved his hands in a quick tut. The haze in the room immediately cleared out, and Quentin rolled his eyes as he slowly sat up, pulling out an earbud. The tiny little sound of Taylor Swift wafted into the air, and Penny reached over and grabbed Quentin’s phone, stopping his music._

_“What do you want?” Quentin asked, running a hand through his hair. He had plans for tonight, and they did not include leaving this room, or his ample supply of weed and potions._

_“Look,” Penny said, his eyes on fire. He had changed out of his professional clothing—he always wore these long jackets with two buttons in muted colors, no tie, his button-down leaving the top few buttons undone to show a smattering of chest hair. Quentin was loath to admit that the man could wear any damn thing he wanted and look like a million bucks, and by the way he strutted around campus, Quentin knew Penny was well aware of it._

_“I get you’ve been through a lot of shit. But you are killing me. In this room, every night, listening to whatever sad-sack shit you have in rotation, getting drunk, high or all of the above. I cannot deal with it. I thought that moving a few doors down would help, but you broadcast like a motherfucker. If I have to deal with another rendition of ‘Young & Sad’ I will kill you myself.” _

_Quentin sat there, his mouth in a thin line, eyes darting from Penny, to an open window, and back again. He exhaled hard, and shrugged. “Well, I dunno what you want me to do about it. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”_

_Penny rolled his eyes. “Build some fucking mental wards, dipshit. You didn’t take a_ single _psychic elective, did you?”_

_Quentin shrugged again. “Didn’t really see the point.”_

_Penny rolled his eyes again, so hard that Quentin was surprised he could still see. “Well, consider today your first lesson.”_

Penny had taken Quentin through a few simple exercises, and loaned him a few books to help him ‘tighten up’ his mental awareness. It had actually really helped Quentin through those first few months—a large part of the reason he’d joined the staff at Brakebills had been the distraction. He needed to keep busy, or he was going to wind up inpatient again, or dead. Everyone had known it. Henry had felt responsible (even though the only person should shoulder any of the blame was Quentin), and that was a large ( _only_ ) part of why he’d immediately agreed to give Quentin a job.

Well, that and probably the fact that Brakebills had some seriously questionable teaching practices. Geese flying to Antarctica? Demons living in every student's back? Hiring back your own severely damaged students was probably one of their better decisions.

The cognitive awareness exercises had helped him build mental wards, but also helped him compartmentalize—which maybe wasn’t the healthiest for the long-term, but it was a large part of what kept him alive those first couple of years. When the only respite Quentin had found was in the bottom of a whiskey bottle or the beautiful burn of smoke flowing down his throat. Since then, Quentin didn’t imbibe quite so much—he’d found other vices to pour his self-hatred into—but he definitely kept his liquor cabinet and his little wooden box that held his pot well-stocked.

Quentin shrugs. “Well, we’ll see how tomorrow goes.” 

Penny nods back, and then stands up straight. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”

Quentin refrains from snapping that he doesn’t need a babysitter, thanks, and instead just nods. Penny drifts down the hall, leaving Quentin’s door open. Quentin rolls his eyes and gets up to close it.

He goes back to his phone, and finishes his text to Julia, letting her know that his day was fine and he’d love to meet her for lunch on Thursday. He gets back various emojis and a “Yay!” He plugs his phone in to charge, and then takes a shower.

Once back in his room, he locks his door, puts on his pajamas, cracks his window, and lights up a joint. It’s his favorite variety from Josh—the perfect combination to quiet his mind and leave his body relaxed, but not completely out of it.

The joint clutched between two fingers, he lays back on his bed and opens up Grindr. He has a few ongoing chats, but his last ‘date’ was the week prior. He’d met up with Ryan at a bar on the lower east side. Ryan was a blonde stockbroker with blue eyes and straight teeth who let Quentin fuck him in his bedroom while his two roommates watched a movie in the living room. Quentin still had his number, and he had seemed open to seeing Quentin again, but Quentin knew he wouldn’t contact him again. He hadn’t seen the same person more than once in… a long time. He just never had the desire to call up anyone again. He never stopped to think much about why; which was probably for the best.

He flips through the various profile pictures (his own consisted of a picture Julia took of him during lunch at a cafe in NYC, with the sunlight shining on his face as he grins up at her, and a upper body shot of him in his favorite hoodie), and he keeps scrolling, not seeing anything catch his eye… and he huffs out a breath as he realizes he’s searching for dark curls and hazels eyes on a sandy beach.

He drops his phone on his nightstand and thumps his head back on his pillow, closing his eyes. What is his fucking deal? He’s had plenty of attractive students in his class, more than one that has hit on him (his second year teaching, Poppy Kline had come through his class, and he did not think he would ever again in his life see anyone quite so single-minded in a quest to get Coldwater dick. He’d almost had to ask Henry to get her out of his class before she’d reined it in). He’s never had any trouble shutting them down without a second thought, playing his role as the professional professor that could handle his shit in the classroom, and was a total disaster outside of it.

Eliot, though… something is different. Unique. There’s a quality around him, a shining brightness that draws Quentin in, gravitating Quentin to his orbit like a falling star streaking through the atmosphere, destined to incinerate before it reached its destination. Quentin can’t put his finger on what the fuck it is, but one touch of his warm hand and one look into his bright eyes had woken something up inside Quentin. Something that hasn’t come up for air in several years.

He had also woken something up outside Quentin, which is evident by the tent forming in his loose pajama pants. Now that he’s allowing himself to dwell, he can’t stop the memories from his class earlier that day from flowing through his mind—Eliot’s curious expression, his face just inches away when their hands touched while picking up papers, his fingers moving so confidently in a tut he’d learned just minutes before, his sly smile with sand brushed over his shoulders on a beach in front of a sunset…

Quentin slips his hand beneath the waistband of his pajama pants and underwear, and grips his cock, quickly stroking it to full hardness. In his mind, he continues with this fantasy from the first time he’d seen Eliot’s picture on his phone… if he’d matched up with him on the phone app, and had met up with him somewhere. But as he imagines talking to him in a bar, leaning into his space as he slides a hand over his thigh, the setting changes. Now they were in his office, Quentin sitting in his desk chair while Eliot leans over him, wrapping one hand around the back of Quentin’s neck, squeezing and pressing down onto Quentin, as Quentin pulls him down into a hard kiss. 

Quentin shoves his pants and underwear down to his lower thighs, allowing his cock to fully spring free. He’s rock hard now, and as he grabs some lube from his nightstand and smears it over his hand, reaching down to stroke his dick, he knows this won’t take long.

He fully gives himself over to the fantasy. Peeling Eliot out of those layers, which would be an adventure in itself, getting his tongue over every inch of exposed skin. Eliot sucking his cock behind a locked office door; bending Eliot over his office desk, sucking Eliot’s dick right here in this room he’s laying in right now… Quentin grunts as he feels his body start to tense; his cock is so fucking hard, he can’t remember the last time he was this turned on. The outline of Eliot’s dick in those tiny, blue swim shorts in his picture, and Quentin _just knows_ it would feel so heavy on his tongue, bumping against the back of his throat as Eliot’s fingers grasped and twisted Quentin’s hair around his strong fingers…

His fist moves faster, a knee arching up and toes curling as he can feel his orgasm bearing down on him. He reaches down with his free hand, below his balls, and finds the tight opening, circling it with his fingertips. It’s awkward at this angle, but he inserts two slick fingers, pumping in once, twice, as the Eliot in his mind pulls his hair hard as he comes, and then he’s fracturing, white streaks behind his eyelids, his toes curling and head pressing back into the pillow, a broken moan leaving his lips as he comes all over his stomach and chest.

He lays there for several minutes, breathing heavily as his senses return to him. He looks down at the mess on his torso, and casts the tut to get rid of the evidence. He pulls his pants and underwear back up into place, and just lays there, listening to the silence in his room as he tries to pull himself together

 _Fuck_. He hasn’t come that hard in… when the fuck ever, and it was from his own hand.

Well. His own hand, and a very explicit, very dangerous fantasy. Even after these years of random hook-ups at bars, restaurants, coffee shops, even the fucking zoo once, he still has new things to discover about himself. 

And tonight’s new thing is that the prospect of having, fucking, _debasing_ a student in his office really fucking does it for him. And in his bedroom. Well, not just a student. Eliot. He runs his hand down his face and sighs. Well, this is _fine_ . _Everything is fine_. He can fantasize about Eliot, he’s sure he isn’t the first and won’t be the last. As long as it’s just a fantasy. And why would it ever be anything but? Quentin may not know Eliot very well, but he’s heard enough about him and Margo’s exploits to know that they can (and do) have their pick of anyone on campus. Why would Eliot look twice at a damaged, lonely professor?

Determined to focus his mind elsewhere, Quentin reaches over and grabs a book from his nightstand and reads for a few hours; it’s some fantasy romance Julia had recommended to him. He reads for an hour or so, even though he has to backtrack several times when the words just slip through an Eliot-shaped sieve in his mind.

When he feels like enough time has passed that he can say he spent part of the evening reading (and he actually has something to tell Julia about the book during lunch on Thursday), he sets it aside and goes to the bathroom once more before bed.

After he returns to his room and as he walks to his bed, his eye catches the calendar hanging on the wall above his desk. It’s a fantasy calendar that Julia had given him; she gives him one every year. This one has a different dragon each month—for September, it’s a red dragon hiding among several yellow flowers. October will follow September, as it always does, and this year will mark five years. Five years since he killed someone with his own weakness.

He turns out his light and crawls under the covers. Moonlight streams through the curtains, and his eyes are wide open. His heart rate picks up as in his mind, he hears Julia screaming his name. He can feel pain ripping through his upper back, and a set of blue eyes, so lovely and so fucking cruel.

It takes hours, but sleep eventually claims him.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 3: Section Section 1.4 - Tension Building Paradigms and their Importance


	3. Section 1.4 - Tension Building Paradigms and their Importance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Professor Coldwater’s Faculty Photo, courtesy of the amazing [Ambiguous Penny](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/ambiguouspenny)

  


_Eliot_

“Oh my god, this is boring as fuck. When do we get back to breaking shit?!” Margo tosses her pen down on her notebook, stands up, and walks to the kitchen.

Eliot watches her as she opens the fridge and hunts for whatever flavor of Vitamin Water she wants today. He looks down at his text and sighs. She has a point. Studying the practical composition of various precious metals is not his idea of a good time. It's a lot more fun actually practicing magic and not just reading about it. But he _really_ wants to do well in Minor Mending. Like, more than any other class ever. And that means knowing that the basic building blocks of glass are a mixture of oxides, which means that you twist your palm clockwise and down into a ninety-degree angle…

“Well, according to the syllabus… two more weeks?” Eliot squints down at the paper tucked into his textbook—it had been unfolded and refolded so many times it felt more like leather, but he’d been too lazy to write down any dates on his phone calendar. 

“Uggh,” Margo groans, plopping down in the chair next to him. “Let’s study something else. Oh, let me show you what I did yesterday in Cryomancy!” She places her hands together, and is halfway through a tut before Eliot gently places his hands atop of hers and stills them.

“We said we’d get through these study questions. There’s only two more, then we can go upstairs and you can freeze all of Todd’s underwear if you want.” He smiles at her, his pen lazily tapping against his notebook.

Margo arches an eyebrow at him. “You know I've already been in Todd’s underwear drawer, and there is nothing there worth our time.” She sits back in her chair, eyeing Eliot speculatively as she takes another sip of her water. “What’s your deal with this class? I’ve never seen you study this hard before. Or at all, really. You know, I’m pretty sure Coldwater will suck your dick whether you get an A or not.” She sets her drink down with a flourish, waiting for his response.

Eliot looks back at her, warmth crawling up his cheeks, his mouth suddenly dry. What _is_ his deal with this class? A fine question really, and one he hasn’t let himself consider over the past month. All he knows is that it is, for some reason, really important to him that Professor Coldwater—Quentin—has no reason to think less of him.

He’d heard many stories about the professor long before he ever set foot in his class—most every Minor Mending student had shared some story or another about the cute, brilliant professor that stumbled over his words, talked with his hands, and was a complete and utter mess outside of the classroom (and, more often than not, inside of it as well). 

The common threads on all of these stories were that the professor was:

  * Stupidly brilliant.
  * Ridiculously awkward.
  * Deliciously sexy.
    * In an absolutely oblivious fashion.
  * A drunk and/or an addict.



The past month of classes had confirmed the first two points, Josh Hoberman had confirmed the last, and Eliot’s eyes had confirmed the third. Eliot had no doubt the professor could cast circles around him with one hand tied behind his back and his eyes closed while upside down and getting his dick sucked, and Eliot would give his right eye to be the one delivering the blow job while he made his attempt.

Eliot had known Quentin was attractive. He’d seen him around campus, and had heard various rumors swirling around the professor’s past—specifically around his girlfriend that had disappeared under tragic circumstances, and his epic breakdown thereafter. So there was no reason for Eliot to consider Quentin anything beyond that cute, straight professor he may get to gaze at three days a week while he taught Eliot how to fix all the broken glasses that Todd threw away every Sunday morning when he cleaned up from the weekend's festivities.

That opinion had swerved wildly to the left one night this past summer though, when Eliot had been lounging around Margo’s loft on the lower east side. His phone was in his hand, the Grindr app open looking for a new adventure, when he had stumbled across a handsome face bathed in sunlight.

“Hello… who are you?” he’d muttered to himself as he sat up straighter and peered closer at the screen.

A jolt ran through him, his stomach flip-flopping, as he immediately recognized Quentin, even though the picture looked nothing like the weary, sad-eyed professor he’d seen traipsing across campus or sitting alone in the dining hall. This man on the screen—he was smiling up at whoever was holding the camera, his brown eyes lit up with mischief, a smile so broad and toothy on his face that it was immediately infectious. His hair was pulled back in a low bun, a few tendrils framing his face. He was incandescently gorgeous.

Eliot flipped to his other picture—he only had two on his profile. The second one looked a lot like the Professor Coldwater he knew—a selfie with a neutral face in an unzipped black hoodie. He did have the first few buttons undone on his shirt, revealing a promising glimpse of smooth skin and sparse chest hair. His hair was down loose, cascading around his face, and his lips formed this perfect pout that Eliot knew would look fabulous around his hard cock.

His age was listed as 32, and Eliot swiped up for his full profile. It was sparse:

  * single versatile man looking for a good time. bi, friendly, nerd, much stamina. ;)
  * Body type: Average
  * Tribes: Discreet, Geek, Clean Cut
  * I am: Single
  * Looking for: Dates
  * Meet at: Bar
  * Accepts NSFW Pics. 



_Much stamina, eh?_ Eliot knew he could put that to the test, and as he swiped back between his two profile pictures, _fuck_ did he want to. He kept going back to the main picture of Quentin, sunshine on his face, looking at whoever was taking the picture like they were the greatest thing since magical lube—he took a screenshot of it and saved it to his phone. He looked closer at what else was in the picture besides Quentin—over his shoulder, Eliot could just read the sign of a book store—Brian’s Books. Eliot knew that store; he’d eaten at the cafe across the street a few times. Then he stared at his profile, his finger hovering over the little ‘flame’ emoji that let another user know you were interested.

He was interested. He was _so interested_. But he also wasn’t an idiot. While he’d love to notch a professor on his bedpost, after the year he’d had, the last thing he needed was more trouble at Brakebills. More trouble anywhere, really. And attempting to fuck his teacher… there couldn’t be a worse move for him right now.

But _fuck_ , what was hiding under those hoodies and tweed blazers? That little tease of chest and collarbone in his second pic made Eliot’s dick twitch, and he took a screenshot of that one too.

 _Versatile_. Eliot mainly topped, but it wasn’t hard to convince him to switch. And if his hot future-teacher was a _friendly_ bisexual... looking for casual sex... only 15 minutes away…

Eliot locked his phone and set it on the nightstand, pushing it all the way to the edge on the far side. He needed to get away from it before he got himself in trouble. 

Eliot hadn’t come across Quentin in the app again, but he had definitely looked for him over the next month before classes started. And those screenshots on his phone (safely tucked in his favorites), by now, he knew that face by heart. It was almost obsessive, how much he’d stared at it over the past few weeks, hurriedly flipping away whenever Margo wandered too close. How much that smile popped up in his head was more than enough for Eliot to know he had a problem.

And the last thing he needed in his life was another problem.

He’d walked into class that first day prepared to be completely turned off. Professor Coldwater would come in, wearing an ill-fitting blazer or an old hoodie, give a boring-ass lecture, not look twice at Eliot, be completely awkward. Eliot’s attraction would be completely extinguished, he’d have a laugh with Margo about it, he’d go find some eager first year to chat up, and that would be that.

That was not what happened.

Quentin had been awkward, all right. He’d stumbled through the doors on the first day, late enough that Eliot had been wondering if they’d get to use the ‘if-teacher-is-15-minutes-late-you-can-leave’ rule on the first day. The words jumbled out of his mouth in one long sentence as he practically threw his bag on the desk, and Eliot’s mouth had again, gone completely dry. His pulse spiked once he’d gotten his first up-close look at Professor Coldwater.

He’d clearly put some effort in. He was wearing a black and beige houndstooth jacket and matching vest with khakis and a white shirt underneath. No tie. Top two buttons undone. Not enough to show chest hair, but enough to show smooth white skin and a sliver of delicious collarbone. His wire rimmed glasses framed his brown eyes, which were anxious as he looked at the class and said, “Welcome to Minor Mending.”

Eliot had approximately three seconds to get his shit together, and he should be on the shortlist for the Academy Award for how smoothly he’d warped his enamored expression into one of amusement and disinterest. Quentin’s eyes had swept over the class, and Eliot swore they had lingered on him for just a second longer than anyone else.

Quentin had launched into an introduction to the class, and as soon as he opened his mouth, Eliot knew he was a goner. For someone who was late to their first class, he didn’t seem to lack confidence—even with the occasional stutter, he talked about magic like it was a well of endless possibilities, something wondrous and hopeful instead of a force that could (and, Eliot knew, probably would) completely ruin your life. He’d taken off his jacket, draping it over his chair and leaning back on his desk, talking to the class with a light in his eyes that was very reminiscent of that photo Eliot couldn’t stop looking at. Eliot let his eyes drag over Quentin’s frame, from his cute little manbun at the back of his head to the shiny dress shoes on his feet.

 _Versatile_.

Seeing him in person had done _nothing_ to squash the flame of his attraction—if anything, it had poured gasoline on it. Then, in a moment worthy of any romantic comedy, Quentin had dropped his papers right next to Eliot, and Eliot had automatically reached down to help, their fingers brushing… Eliot couldn’t imagine a charge that electric. Magic had shot through his fingers, goosebumps up his arm, and Eliot had stared at Quentin’s brown eyes that had darkened just slightly as he gazed at Eliot. The rest of the class faded away, just for one second, and then the professor inhaled sharply, grabbed the papers and practically ran back up to the front of the room.

Bambi had been turned around in her seat looking at him, and he saw the sparkle in her eye as Quentin had dug out some supplies from the nearby closet. He knew that look—and even as his familiar mask of indifference clicked into place, he knew it was too late. She’d seen that moment. And now, she had an _idea_. And from the smirk on her face as she turned to face the front, it would not play out well for him.

And well, it hadn’t been that bad, although he’d almost lost his pocket watch in the process. Which, yeah, not exactly a priceless heirloom, but still, _what the fuck, Margo_? As they’d left the class, Eliot still reeling from Margo’s sudden need to destroy his accessories, he’d hissed that exact phrase to her.

“I couldn’t resist! A class that encourages you to break stuff—great way to start the term. Hell, this should be a first-year class. Plus,” she added, looking up at Eliot slyly, “Now he knows who you are.”

“You mean he knows who YOU are. I was the innocent bystander in all of this. Me and my pocket watch.” He pulled it out of his vest, feeling the cool metal against his fingertips. It’s surface had been scratched up, but now, it was in pristine condition—not even a smudge. He looks down at all the little dials and charts, and he realizes, to his shock, it’s little hands were ticking away.

He remembers when he found it in Lovelady’s stash during one of the peddler’s visits to the Cottage. Lovelady would randomly turn up with a trunk full of magical wares and artifacts, which were usually pure trash. Why he was even allowed on campus, Eliot wasn’t sure—maybe he had an alumni key. Anyway, Eliot had been picking through his offerings, and the watch had immediately caught his eye. It had a vintage air, would match a majority of his outfits, and just flat out looked _cool_. It didn’t work at all—the little dials and charts were motionless, leaving it’s only use purely decorational. Eliot had no problem handing over $10 for something that would tie a look together.

Frowning, he closed it and tucked it back in his pocket. “As if _anyone_ needs something to remember Eliot Waugh.”

Margo shrugged. “We made an impression. A better one than you were making with your moon eyes.” Eliot had rolled his (very not moon-like) eyes, and they hadn’t spoken of it again. She’d been normal in classes since then—well, normal for Margo, at any rate. Meaning she hadn’t blasted her desk to smithereens and demanded Quentin mend it for her. Yet.

Now though, she arches an eyebrow at Eliot as he fights the blush he knows is starting to form on his face. “What?” he says, pulling his notebook closer to him as he looks down at his text. “I just want to get the homework done.”

“Bullshit,” she hisses. “You have a _thing_ for him.”

“Margo, be serious.” His pulse picks up as he fights to keep a neutral expression on his face. “He’s the teacher. You know I didn’t do so great… academically last year. I need to do better.” He gives her a pointed look. “So _help_ me do better by finishing the homework.”

He turns back to his book and is about to start writing in his notebook when he feels something move in his pants—and not in the surprisingly delightful way. “What are you—hey!” He jumps up from his chair and chases Margo as she runs through out of the kitchen and into the front room with his phone.

She turns and plops down on the couch; his phone is already unlocked and she’s flipping through his favorite photos. His eyes widen as she finds what she’s looking for and holds it up in front of him. Quentin’s smiling face, awash in sunlight, looks back at him.

“ _This_ ,” she says tightly, “is serious.”

Eliot sinks down on the couch next to her. He looks at the picture on his phone, and then her face—her eyes light, but concerned and a slight frown on her face. “You stare at this picture way too much for it to be just another pretty face. You haven’t gone out on any dates in the past few weeks. Did you meet up with him or something? What’s the fucking deal?”

Eliot reaches over and takes his phone back, locking it and putting it in his pocket. “No, no, nothing like that,” he says, sighing.

He should have known this was coming. His behavior the past few weeks _had_ changed some—although he would have thought Margo would be happy about that. Even her eyebrows had raised at how hard he’d been hitting the bottle… and the dating apps.

To say the year before had been rough for Eliot would be the biggest fucking understatement of his life (and he had a _plethora_ of rough times to choose from). It’s hard to cap falling in love, and then killing your lover when _they_ tried to kill _you_ while under the possession of a magical force they’d inadvertently summoned. 

Eliot had met Mike at Encanto Oculto. It had been Eliot’s second visit, and Mike’s first. Eliot hadn’t even known his name when he’d gone down on him in a cabana just off the shoreline, and Mike hadn’t asked Eliot his until after the second time Eliot had fucked him in his hotel room. What was meant to be a one-time hookup had turned into them being inseparable for the entirety of the festival. Eliot had fallen hard and fast for the gorgeous, built, and surprisingly flexible blue-eyed Texan. Their relationship had continued beyond that one beautiful week… but unfortunately not for as long as Eliot had hoped.

Mike was a Brakebills graduate, just a few years ahead of Eliot, and he visited the cottage several times after that delicious week of sex and sun. Margo had side-eyed Eliot’s sudden attachment to monogamy, but even she couldn’t deny he was happy. It had all come crashing down much too soon when, in a plot twist not even Shakespeare would have seen coming, Eliot had found himself snapping his boyfriends neck as Mike bared down on him in the basement of the library, the knife in Mike’s hand headed straight for Eliot’s heart.

Mike had been coked out of his mind, on drugs and magic, and Eliot had been utterly ruined. Margo had found him, alerted Fogg, and it was all very quickly swept under the rug. He’d been given a pass for most of his classes that semester, and Margo had holed up with him in his room in the cottage, weeks passing where the only time he left the bedroom was to go to the bathroom or replenish his stock of food and liquor.

He may have stayed in that room forever if not for Margo. She’d quite literally yanked him through a portal and into her NYC apartment (paid for by daddy’s money), and hauled him into therapy. Eliot had only lasted three visits, but her teary face as she begged him to come back to her had been enough to pull him from that dark place he didn't really want to leave.

They’d spent the summer living it up in the city—Margo’s money got them into any club they wanted, and Eliot’s looks got him any man he (or Margo) deemed worthy. Once Eliot had decided he was back in his life, he was _in_ , to a worrisome degree. He’d done more drugs and sucked more cock over those three months than he had his entire life before. Thank God for the convenience of magical sexual protection spells. Too bad the same kind of thing didn’t exist for the damage he was doing to the rest of his body.

They’d returned to campus two weeks before classes started, and Eliot had kept right on going, lighting up the cottage nightly and working his way through the first years. He would have probably hit every one, had he not stopped abruptly after that first day of classes.

Not that he’d wanted to stop. They’d had an epic first-day bash that very night, and Eliot had been chatting up Ronald, a first-year illusion student, but when he whispered in his ear and slid a hand up his thigh, it wasn’t Ronald he was really thinking of. And he’d demurred, thinking he’d take one night off and get his head back in the game.

But his head appeared to have taken up residence on the third floor of the TP building, Room 305—where he hadn’t missed a single class. Which, for Eliot to have perfect attendance for a 9AM class three days a week… it would raise anyone’s eyebrows. He hadn’t seduced a single first-year (or any year) since that day, and was instead, horrifyingly, spending his time studying.

And getting drunk and high. He wasn’t quite that far gone, to give up _all_ of his vices.

“I did see him on the app, but I didn’t like, talk to him or anything. I’m not stupid.”

“But you saved his pictures,” Margo presses.

“Well, they’re very nice pictures,” Eliot says, shrugging, crossing his legs as he leaned back on the couch, slinging one arm across the back. “I do the same for lots of guys.”

“Uh huh,” Margo says, crossing her arms. “Babe, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to see you slowing down on the fucking front. I was worried you’d have to switch schools soon to get a new variety of cock to suck.”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, the only sign of his discomfort in the tight line of his lips. 

“And I’m not knocking you going after a professor. I’m all for living your best life, and he’s hot, I’ll give you that. Has that little nerd thing going on I know you don’t like to admit you love.” He opens his mouth to protest, and she keeps on going. “But El, he’s fucked up. Anyone can see it.”

Eliot’s mouth snaps shut at that, his first insane reflex being to defend Quentin. You know, his _professor_ who’s only real contact has been a handful of conversations about term papers and pop quizzes. And while he verbally clamps back on that instinct, he can’t help but think, _and we’re so_ not _fucked up_? Eliot and Margo are hardly the poster children for positive social adjustment. His second instinct is to realize that, of course, Margo is right.

While Quentin is brilliant, he’s not exactly what anyone would call… stable. His good days in the past month outnumber the bad, but just barely. 

At least once a week he was late, and he’d cancelled three classes unexpectedly—once with no notice—he just didn’t show up. His wardrobe varied wildly from the professional (he favored patterned or solid blazers and button-down shirts, always, _always_ with the top buttons undone) to the borderline too-casual (random hoodies and t-shirts with holes and baggy jeans). Eliot could tell he had come to class either high or drunk at least twice (he hid it well—Eliot hadn’t even been sure Bambi noticed, but like knows like), and on one occasion he’d just had the class read to themselves and work in the text while he sat at his desk and stared out the window. Eliot wouldn’t have been surprised if one day he wheeled in an AV cart and loaded up ‘The Labyrinth’ for an in-depth look at ‘magic in the media’ (and an exposé into how far David Bowie’s dick could test spandex and polyester).

When he was on, though—he was amazing. Spending hours going over the physical properties of most common objects was inherently boring, but Quentin’s wonder at how magic can take broken things and make them whole again was intrinsically infectious (even if it did prompt Eliot to spend too much time wishing that he could mend his own broken heart as easily as he could a broken vase). Quentin may have been a functioning alcoholic, but he wasn’t mean or hurtful, like so many that Eliot had known in his life were. Cecily had come into class in an absolute state one day because she had dropped this horribly ugly golden broach that belonged to her grandmother, and it was now in a dozen pieces instead of one. The girl was so worked up, she couldn’t even form words, leading Quentin to just plead, “Ok, ok, I can fix it—just _please_ stop crying”, and he’d not only mended it, but he conjured up the missing pieces that had been lost when it had crashed to the ground. Cecily had broken down anew, hugging him when he’d given her the fixed broach, just as horrid-looking as it had been before. Quentin had awkwardly patted her on the back while his eyes jerked around the classroom, looking for an escape.

He’d brought the entire class outside one gorgeous fall day, to talk about the complexities of mending within nature. There was a group of squirrels nearby, and Quentin had kept getting distracted trying to feed them. He had looked the closest to the man in the picture on Eliot’s phone that day—a delighted smile, dimples everywhere, the sunlight playing on his face as he’d point at the animals darting around. He’d also been wearing Eliot’s favorite outfit on him thus far—a blue button-down shirt with a grey tie, a beige corduroy blazer, and matching pants. 

And he absolutely was remarkably awkward, but not in that idiotic Todd way that left Eliot annoyed. It was more… adorable? Like, the way Quentin never made it through a single lesson without getting chalk somewhere on his face didn’t make Eliot roll his eyes; it only made him want to lick his finger and swipe it right off Quentin’s chin. Quentin also _never_ had his phone or laptop charger, which you’d think wouldn’t be a problem in the first class of the day, but apparently for Quentin it was a thing. Eliot had loaned him his own laptop power cord when Quentin’s had died mid-lecture, which led to Quentin rebooting his laptop and opening his web browser, which still had all his tabs up—literally like 60. No porn in sight (and Eliot knew those website icons by heart); the only thing Eliot had really seen before Quentin quickly closed the program were the words ‘Archive of,’ which Eliot had meant to google but just those two words weren’t enough to find anything. He also had a hard time staying on topic—he once did twenty minutes on the mechanics behind rebuilding the Death Star before Todd had raised his hand and asked about the material differences between retooling a TIE Fighter and an X-Wing, and, well, that was an hour of Eliot’s life he’d never get back.

In short, he was everything Eliot had heard—a brilliant, awkward, sexy professor that had a lot of personal issues that he let bleed into his job. And with every class, Eliot felt his crush burn a little bit brighter. They hadn’t shared another ‘moment’ like that first class, but not for Eliot’s lack of trying.

The next few classes after that first one, Quentin had basically refused to look at him. Eliot didn’t think he even came near his side of the class. He’d loosened up some in the past couple weeks, he no longer avoided all eye contact like the plague, and had even given Eliot a few smiles during class (every single one sending a hailstorm through Eliot’s chest). And more than once, when Eliot glanced up from his work, he met a pair of brown eyes practically pinning him to his desk. Quentin would always glance away quickly, but Eliot _knew_. He could see that same burning in Quentin’s eyes that Eliot felt deep in his belly. But if Eliot approached him after class, or tried to have an actual conversation, Quentin would be very formal and short, turning back to his work as soon as their conversation was done. 

Eliot knew he should follow Quentin’s lead. Quentin was establishing boundaries. It should turn him off.

But it didn’t.

Because if Quentin _was_ staying away, if he was looking at Eliot when he thought no one would notice, that meant… the attraction wasn’t one-sided.

Which was no surprise, really. Eliot would be hard-pressed to remember a time he didn’t snag whatever prey he was tracking. But this situation was unprecedented for Eliot—nailing a professor was an adventure he had never even considered before. It was _illicit_ , against the rules. He could get in real trouble.

And even though he _really_ needed to stay on Brakebill’s nice list this year, he’d be lying if he didn’t say it made him want Quentin all the more.

Turning back to Margo, Eliot scratches behind his head. “I know, Bambi. I’m not… going to try to seduce the teacher.” He looks at her. “Even though we both know I could.”

Margo _looks_ at him. “No shit, Eliot, I have no doubt that you could. And I can’t think of anyone else on campus that would benefit from a good dicking down more than _Quentin_.” She does that every time, saying his name with that emphasis, letting it roll off her lips in a way that made those two syllables way hotter than they had any right to be. “But you should stop and think if you should.”

“Don’t quote Jurassic Park at me,” Eliot says, a smile pulling at his lips. He reaches over and grabs Margo’s hand, slotting their fingers together, squeezing. “I know you worry about me. I love you for it. Last year was…”

“It was fucking scary,” she finishes for him, and he’s surprised to see tenderness shining in her eyes. He scooches over and pulls her against his chest, nestling her right under his chin. “I don’t ever want to see you like that again.”

Eliot stares across the room, looking at the tall shelf full of glassware, liquor, and barware, but not really seeing anything. He wants to tell her she doesn’t have to worry. That he’ll never put her through that again. But he honestly doesn’t know. The drugs, booze, sex… it makes him feel better, for a minute. Then he’s back to being Eliot, the failure from Indiana that had killed the only man he’d ever loved. 

For now, he just hugs her tighter and says, “I know.”

~~~

Later that night, Eliot sits on the low bench that runs around the perimeter of the Brakebills Observatory Tower. Windows circle the tower just above the bench, and he has one propped open, blowing little smoke circles and arrows into the dark night air.

The tower is all but abandoned, the only equipment left inside being a huge, antiquated late-nineteenth century telescope poking up through the domed ceiling. A circular track, which was supposed to be used for maneuvering the telescope, ran around the tower. It hadn’t been used in years—it was full of dirt and rust. Eliot can still feel magic moving through the equipment, though; he’s sure that if he wanted to use it, he could. Shadows flicker on the walls from the few torches that circle the interior—Eliot lit them on his way in.

A couple of chairs and a low table are scattered in the space. The oddest thing was an old orange armchair that sat off to the side. It had ripped upholstery and was comfortable enough, in a pinch—Eliot had sat in it more than once when he’d brought a date or two up here. He glances at it now, smiling as he sends another puff out the window.

He’s been thinking of his conversation with Margo earlier. She's right—his little ‘crush’ is turning into a full-blown ‘thing,’ and he needs to let go of it. What’s he thinking, anyway? That a professor is going to throw away his entire career for a roll in the hay with Eliot? He knows he would make it totally worth Quentin’s while, but he needs to move on before he completely loses his touch.

He has his phone in his hand, taking a last look at Quentin’s pictures. His finger is hovering over the little delete icon at the bottom when a sound catches his attention. It sounds like footsteps, coming from the doorway—someone is climbing up the long spiral staircase to the observatory. It sounds like just one person, and Eliot puts his phone in his pocket. He quickly sets his joint on the bench between his leg and the wall, and casts a quick tut that clears the air of any weed haze. It could be a faculty member, which he doubts, but he still doesn’t need to make it incredibly obvious what he’s doing up here. Even if there really is no other reason to be up here alone.

He tries to look relaxed as he watches the doorway expectantly. When a figure appears in the doorway and steps into the dimly lit room, his face becoming visible in the dim torchlight, Eliot’s mouth drops open and he wonders if he’s cast some kind of spell that’s brought his thoughts into reality.

Standing across the tower, staring right at Eliot with wide brown eyes, is Professor Coldwater. Uh, _Quentin_. 

He’s dressed casually—a dark blue hoodie, halfway zipped up, a plain black tee underneath it. Dark, slightly baggy jeans. His hair is down and loose, one side tucked behind his ear. Usually Quentin wears his hair up; it’s been down and loose only a handful of times, and Eliot instantly thinks of his fingers buried deep in those strands. Quentin’s messenger bag is slung over one shoulder, although it’s not bulging as much as usual. Were it not for the old weariness in his eyes, he could pass for just another student.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and Eliot’s heart decides to run a marathon within his chest. Quentin is just staring at him in silence, his mouth hanging open, and Eliot wonders how often he comes to the tower, late at night. And if he’s usually alone when he does.

Eliot is the first to recover. “Hi,” he says, his fingers grasping the joint he’d set down, like he needs something to anchor him. 

Quentin is still apparently rooted to the floor, but then his mouth snaps shut. “Hi,” he says softly. Then he almost startles, like he’s waking from a deep sleep, and he starts shuffling backwards. “I’m—um—sorry—I was just—”

“It’s fine,” Eliot says, suddenly completely understanding what Quentin is doing here, desperately wanting him to stay. It’s a risk, but… he picks up the joint, raises it to his lips, and takes a drag. Exhaling, he holds up the joint and says, “I’m happy to share. I have a few more; some new blend Hoberman is peddling.” He raises an eyebrow at Quentin, a slight smile on his face that he knows is appealing as all fuck.

Quentin arches an eyebrow at him, and even from a few feet away, Eliot can see the conflict on his face. His words hang in the air for a moment, and then Quentin takes a step towards him, and then another. Then he’s dropping his bag on the floor and settling on the bench a few feet away from Eliot.

Quentin looks at Eliot for a moment, and then turns and props the window closest to him open a few inches. He also pulls out a bottle of water and sets it on the floor by his bag. Eliot has his own bottle of Gatorade sitting near his feet. He exhales another drag out of his window as he watches Quentin.

Eliot’s very tempted to just hand him the joint he’s been puffing on, but he doesn’t want to scare off the dear professor. Instead, he pulls a silver cigarette case from his front pocket, placing it on the bench in front of him. He can feel Quentin’s eyes on him as he flicks it open, and pulls out a joint from the several gathered in the case.

“Oh, I have my own,” Quentin says, waving a hand in protest. Eliot looks up at him from underneath his lashes, and he knows he’s not imagining the bob of Quentin’s throat when he swallows.

“Nonsense,” Eliot says. He offers the joint to Quentin. “I insist.”

Quentin purses his lips, and his eyes dart from Eliot’s offering to the door and back, like he’s contemplating making a break for it at any moment. Then his eyes flicker up to Eliot’s own, and Eliot’s heart does a drum solo at the intensity he sees brimming underneath Quentin’s gaze.

Quentin apparently decides to listen to the devil on his shoulder ( _thank God_ ), and plucks the joint out of Eliot’s hand, making sure that he doesn’t actually touch Eliot in the process. Quick as anything, Eliot moves his fingers and a small flame erupts from his fingertips. Quentin grins as he lights the end of his joint, and takes a large inhale.

Eliot watches him as his lips close around the joint, full and purposeful, the deep inhale making his cheeks hollow out and his eyes close. _Fuck_. What Eliot could do with that mouth… his cock is already twitching just at the thought of it. Quentin holds it for a second, two, and then he exhales, forcing the smoke out of his mouth and into the dark night air. His eyes open and they meet Eliot’s, darkening slightly. Eliot is careful to keep his expression relaxed, disinterested. Quentin holds his gaze for a moment, and then he looks away. Torchlight flickers over his face, making him look almost ethereal against the dark night sky.

They smoke together in silence for a few moments until Eliot says lightly, “So… come here often?”

Quentin’s mouth breaks into an incredulous grin, which immediately spreads over to Eliot. They chuckle for a moment, and then the silence returns. Then Quentin says, “Not too often. Every once in a while, when the weather’s nice. It’s a pretty amazing view. You?” He takes another long hit, the joint already halfway gone.

“Every once in a while,” Eliot says, taking a last hit off his joint, finishing it. He tosses what is left into a nearby bucket, the closest thing to a trash can. He keeps his gaze straight on Quentin’s face. “I also like the view. Tonight, especially.” Quentin’s eyes flicker over to Eliot, and even though it’s dark, Eliot can see the red tinge to the professor’s cheeks.

 _Yes_. Fuck, just a blush has Eliot’s body responding in ridiculous ways. He’s also feeling very relaxed—the pot he’s smoking is new, but it's well on its way to becoming one of his favorite blends, if not just for the memory of smoking it with Quentin. He’s not sure what Josh does to the weed, but right now Eliot feels entirely relaxed, but also like he could run a few miles if he really wanted to. And the air kind of smells like the beach. He’s not sure what's up with that.

He feels like his senses are ten times sharper right now as he looks at Quentin. The slight curve of his mouth, the blush across his cheeks, his defined jaw, hair pushed back behind his ears, his fucking dimples even though he’s not really smiling. He’s gorgeous, sexy, all the descriptive adjectives that will never even come close to capturing the utterly captivating being sitting across from him. Eliot knows almost nothing about him, but he is absolutely certain he would commit several felonies for the chance to be just a little bit closer to him.

Quentin glances over at the old orange armchair and gestures in it’s direction. “That thing has been here up here longer than I’ve been at Brakebills.”

Eliot is only slightly disappointed that Quentin has chosen to ignore Eliot’s rather blatant flirtation—he should probably be happy Quentin didn’t instantly rebuke him, or up and leave. Eliot turns and glances at the armchair—he’d known it was old, but he didn’t realize it was that old. He feels kind of grossed out about sitting in it now.

“I don’t think it’s moved since then,” Eliot jokes. “I always wondered how it got up here. The door is too narrow for it to fit.” Quentin lights up another joint from his own supply, having finished his first, and he takes a drag. Eliot grabs a mostly-full Gatorade bottle (lemon-lime) from his feet and takes a swig, enjoying the cold feel of it as it moves down his throat. 

“I guess some Master Magician thought it needed to be up here badly enough to levitate it all the way from the ground up.” Quentin glanced at Eliot, out the window, and then back to him. Then, to Eliot’s utter shock, he hands out his joint for Eliot to take a drag.

Eliot stares at it for a minute, and then reaches out to take it, _accidentally_ dragging his fingers against Quentin’s as he grabs it. And there it is, that same shock ebbing up his arm. Not quite as startling as the first day of class, but it’s there, and now his pants are starting to get slightly uncomfortable.

 _Fuck_ . What is it about this man, that gets him going with just a look or the slightest touch? Eliot’s never had such an intense, visceral reaction to just being near someone, like there’s a string vibrating between the two of them, and all Eliot has to do is _pluck pluck pluck_ until he goes fucking insane.

“So how are your classes going?” Quentin looks at Eliot as he asks, and reaches over to take back the offered joint from Eliot’s fingers. No accidental touches this time…

“Fine,” Eliot says, again enjoying the movement of Quentin’s lips as he takes another hit. “I basically live in the TP building, and when I’m not there, I’m in the library working on my thesis topic for Sunderland.” _And when I’m not there, I’m in my room, thinking way too much about your lips and my dick meeting under inappropriate circumstances._

Quentin nods, and Eliot’s eyes flicker down to the hand Quentin has on his knee, the one with the joint clutched between his fingers. Quentin is perched oddly on the bench, one leg twisted, bent under him and he’s basically sitting on his ankle while the other foot is on the floor. That leg is bouncing slightly, and Eliot wonders if that’s a nervous twitch or if Quentin just can’t sit still. From what he’s seen in class, Eliot would guess the former, since the weed should at least be taking the edge off.

“You pick a topic yet?” Quentin asks as he gazes out at the night sky, taking a swig from his water bottle. 

“Not even close,” Eliot says, smirking. He reaches out and gently taps Quentin’s hand that holds the joint. He sees the corner of Quentin’s mouth flick up, and Quentin slides the joint between Eliot’s offered fingers, his own fingers brushing very gently right against Eliot’s. Quentin never actually looks at Eliot as he does it, and Eliot sucks in a quick breath at the somersault his stomach does at the contact. His pants are _definitely_ getting tighter, and he can feel that familiar slow burn starting up in his gut. _Calm down—he just touched your hand for fuck’s sake._

Quentin clears his throat and pulls his hand back to his lap, straightening up in his seat. “Still plenty of time.” His voice is lower, raspier than it had been a minute ago. Must be from the smoking...

Eliot grunts in agreement, taking a hit and then just holding the joint in his hand, not passing it back yet. "Well, it's already October. Need to decide soon." 

"It _is_ October," Quentin says, in a tone that Eliot doesn't quite understand. He had been on the edge of a grin, almost relaxed, but his face is suddenly serious, his body tense.

"Are you not a fan of fall and Halloween?" Eliot jokes. He smiles in jest, but it fades as Quentin's expression doesn't change.

"October is, uh—difficult for me," he says, and then he frowns, looking down at his hands, then back out the window. He almost looks pissed off, and Eliot frowns as he wonders what caused the sudden change in mood.

Wordlessly, Eliot passes the joint back to Quentin, who quickly accepts it and takes a drag. There’s a weird tension in the air, and Eliot feels like Quentin is seconds away from jumping up and running out of the room. That's the last thing Eliot wants, so he ignores the opening Quentin left for him, and steers the conversation back to something safer.

“How are classes going for you?” Eliot asks, leaning back a bit. The combination of firelight and moonlight shining on Quentin's face gives him kind of an ethereal glow, as if he stepped out of a dream. This is a picture Eliot won't need to look at on his phone to recall in perfect clarity.

Eliot can instantly see Quentin seem to unlock, the slight exhale and drop of his shoulders as he tilts his head towards Eliot. “Good,” he says, and he takes the last hit of the joint, flicking it into the makeshift trash can with surprising precision. “Smart group this year.” He pauses, and adds, “Probably the most ambitious class I’ve had yet.”

Eliot chuckles, an image of Margo smiling victoriously among the shattered remains of her vase popping up in his head. “Not a lot out there like Bambi. She’s always been one to take the shortest path somewhere, even if she has to… break everything in the class to get there.”

Quentin smiles; well, the corner of his lips pull up, anyway. His eyes are darting to Eliot and then back out the window, to his hands, and that leg keeps bouncing slightly. Eliot is about to offer him another joint from his stash, maybe another will get him to actually relax, when Quentin asks, “So—she’s your girlfriend?”

Eliot stares at him, a plethora of responses running through his brain. _Do you seriously think I’m straight?—No, I’d much rather you sit on my face than Margo—The day someone calls Margo their girlfriend is the day I quit mainlining gin and tonics—No, no girlfriend, I’m single—very very single._

In the end, he settles on, “No, she’s not. While Bambi is and always will be my soulmate, our relationship is not… a romantic one. My tastes run a little more... masculine.” Quentin gives him a small nod, and then he reaches for his bag. Quick as a flash, Eliot has another joint in his hand, offering it to Quentin.

Quentin stares at it for a second, and Eliot sees the indecision on his face. Eliot keeps a neutral expression, but inside he is desperately hoping Quentin takes it. He’ll smoke his entire stash in one night, even if it means he’ll immediately go back to the cottage, eat the entire contents of the refrigerator, and sleep the entire next day, if he gets to spend more time with Quentin.

Finally Quentin plucks it from his hand, and says, “Next one is mine. I’m not gonna smoke your entire… supply.”

Eliot grins as he takes another gulp of his drink. “No worries, I have easy access for more.” As Quentin lights it, Eliot asks lightly, “So what about you?”

Quentin raised an eyebrow at him as he took a drag and handed the joint to Eliot, picking up his water after to take a drink. “What about me?” His eyes are slightly hooded, and Eliot can tell he’s finally feeling the high.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Eliot takes a deep inhale, feeling the burn in his lungs. Josh also carries various oils and edibles, which Eliot does have a few of, but nothing beats the warm burn of good pot on a cool fall night—the taste is different when you smoke it, more flavorful, intense, and the high hits faster. Waiting for Quentin’s response, it’s on the tip of Eliot’s tongue to say, _I know your Grindr profile said you were into guys, and by the way, exactly how much stamina_ is _‘much stamina,_ ’ but he manages to keep it in his pants, at least for now.

Quentin’s eyes widen as a look of surprise falls over his face. “Uh—no, I—I did a long time ago, but now I—um, I date girls and, you know, guys, but no one—I—shit—” He exhales hard as he blinks his eyes and mutters, “I really should not have taken another hit.”

Eliot is unable to keep the grin off his face, he’s feeling _really_ good, thanks to Josh’s magic weed, and the handsome professor just two feet away from him. “You know, usually weed makes people less anxious, but it seems like it has the opposite effect for you.” 

To his surprise, Quentin breaks into a large grin, the kind that Eliot has only seen in that screenshot on his phone. “Story of my fuckin’ life,” he says, truly laughing. He catches Eliot’s eyes, and soon they are both cracking up, and ten seconds later Eliot has no idea what was so funny, but he knows he’ll never forget the image of Quentin Coldwater full out laughing as firelight dances across his face.

Once they catch their breath, Quentin asks, “So are you enjoying Minor Mending?”

Again, a plethora of inappropriate responses fly through Elliot's mind. _It’s very interesting, but I’d enjoy it more if you taught it naked—and I attended naked—and I was the only student—and instead of a classroom we were in a hotel room—_

“Um,” he says, chuckling at his own thoughts, “It-it’s interesting. I like it, but we are all wondering…” he trails off, wondering exactly where he’s going with his sentence when Quentin smiles ( _he’s so pretty_ ), pushes his hair behind his ears and says, “When you get to break stuff again?”

They’re both laughing again, Eliot handing the joint to Quentin, their fingers brushing and Eliot nudges just an inch closer on the bench. “Soon,” Quentin says, taking a short inhale, coughing right after. Eliot takes the joint from Quentin as he takes a gulp of water, and Eliot knows their time together is probably coming to an end. Unless…

“So, I’ve been working on the watch,” Eliot says, pulling the aforementioned watch out of his pocket. It wasn’t a total lie, he had been working on mending a few items around the Cottage, but he hadn’t taken a second look at the watch since that first day. Plus, now that it was actually working, he didn’t want to chance legitimately breaking it. He’d grabbed it on his way out the door tonight, though, and apparently the reason he had done so was because he needed a reason to keep Quentin here for as long as possible.

“Hmm?” Quentin asks, a smile playing on his lips as he looks at Eliot. He’s so distracting when his lips move like that, pulling up on the corners as his eyes are practically fucking twinkling. He’s leaning forward a little, almost to the point where he’s coming into Eliot’s space.

Eliot moves his fingers and the joint nub disappears into thin air, into the cosmic storage space that holds probably a metric ton of cigarette butts, spilled wine, and so much semen that Eliot can’t even begin to comprehend. He looks around, his head swiveling as Quentin watches in confusion. Under the old telescope are several gears and joints, and Eliot spots a larger one that looks rather heavy. He gets up and grabs it, quickly returning to the bench where the watch is sitting. Before Quentin can arch another eyebrow (and before Eliot can second guess himself, he’s really putting this poor watch through the grinder), he’s slammed the gear down, and his pocket watch is, again, a very flat pile of plastic and metal.

Eliot looks up at Quentin’s face, which is, predictably, wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. Then Quentin sighs. “I am not high enough for this.”

“I can fix that,” Eliot says.

“That’s okay,” Quentin says, chuckling. “So you think you can mend it?” Quentin asks, pushing that stubborn lock of hair behind his ear. The slight smile has returned to his face, and it’s infectious; Eliot smiles back at him and he swears the two of them just fucking beam at each other for ten seconds before Eliot remembers that he had a point to smashing one of his favorite $10 accessories.

“I think so, yeah,” Eliot says, cracking his knuckles. Quentin sits back in his seat, and Eliot can see his eyes focus on Eliot’s hands. He also sees Quentin’s throat bob as he swallows hard. _Interesting_. Eliot inhales, and then starts moving his hands in a practiced tut.

One of Eliot’s favorite parts of being a magician is commanding your magic within your body. Even that first horrible magical experience in his life, when he’d seen Logan crossing the street and thought _I wish that fucking bus would just hit the gas and swerve just a little_ and then it fucking _had_ and he’d been stunned at the carnage right in front of him that he’d fucking _caused_ , even then he’d felt that spark inside him, warming him, aching to be brought out into the light. When he’d stumbled into Brakebills one fall day, opening the door to what he thought was an interview with a theater company in NYC but was instead in a large classroom full of strangers, he had _known_ this was it. His body had practically sung as he’d sat down at a random desk and the test in front of him had shifted and changed, making absolutely no sense but he _knew_ every answer just like his body knew how to breathe.

It’s a little like that now, the muscle memory in his hands taking over, opening the door that allows his magic to ebb and flow and only seconds pass before he can feel every tiny piece of the watch, even the one that flew way over by the door, moving and converging in the air, centering right in front of him, between him and Quentin, the hair on his arms rising as every new connection the watch makes sends a little spark through his body.

Then— _shit, fuck_ —he’s losing it, the connection is breaking, his positioning is off or he turned just a millimeter in the wrong direction and it’s going to fail when—warm hands encircle his and he opens his eyes to see Quentin just a foot away, his eyes intent on Eliot’s hands, his tongue sticking out just barely between his lips ( _fuck_ ), and Quentin’s whispers, “Don’t lose it, keep your focus,” and then Quentin’s fingers are sliding over Eliot’s, moving them in the proper tut and the waning erection that Eliot had almost forgotten about is back in full-force.

Eliot closes his eyes again and let’s Quentin’s hands guide him; he can feel the connection to the watch through his magic, just barely, and then as Quentin’s warm fingertips slide over Eliot’s palm, adjusting, it’s like he can feel Quentin’s magic flowing through him as well, which is crazy, _right, that’s not a thing_ , but it feels like a thing, like he can feel every atom of that watch, feel it’s thirst to connect with what it once was but not longer is, and Quentin’s fucking heat wrapping around his wrists ( _that’s totally not necessary for this, this much touching?_ ), skin so soft against his, with his eyes closed and his magic flowing it’s like everything is magnified times a thousand, he swallows and squirms in his seat, this—this magical connection that he’s never felt before that is all over his body from his toes to his eyebrows to his cock, and then there’s a click, not audibly, but within himself, if that makes any kind of sense, and he knows without looking that the watch is whole again.

He opens his eyes, and there it is on the bench. In one piece, and in the silence he can hear the _tick tick tick_ of the mechanism. A foot above the watch are his hands, tangled with Quentin’s. He stares at them for a second, and then up to Quentin’s face, which is now just a foot away, eyes locked onto his.

They stare at each other for a moment, Eliot’s breathing slightly heavier, and even in the dim light he can see Quentin’s eyes darken. This close, he can smell Quentin’s breath—mint and bourbon; he must have had a drink before coming over. Through the haze in his mind, Eliot knows this is a bad idea, but he really doesn’t give a fuck and he’s about to lean forward when Quentin whispers, “What did it feel like?”

Eliot licks his lips, seeing Quentin’s gaze follow the movement, and without thinking he says, “Like I helped it wake up. And remember what it was before.”

He feels Quentin’s hands tighten around his fingers, and now Eliot definitely _is_ leaning forward and Quentin is staring at his mouth and then—

“I have to go,” Quentin says, dropping Eliot’s hands and pulling back abruptly. He turns and grabs his bag from the floor, standing up quickly.

“Quentin—” Eliot starts, stunned, wide-eyed, turned on, and trying to grasp what’s happening.

“I’ll see you in class,” Quentin says, already halfway across the observatory, and then he’s gone, leaving Eliot sitting there with his hands still hovering and his pocket watch shining on the bench.

Eliot stares at the open door as he hears Quentin’s quick footsteps echo up the stairwell.

Then he looks down at his watch and sighs. He picks it up, staring at the various dials and moving hands.

“ _T_ _his_ ,” he mutters, thinking of Margo from earlier that day, “is serious.”

He sits there, heat swirling through his veins, his cock-half hard against his thigh, and wraps his fingers around the surface of the watch, still warm as the last little tingles of magic pulse away. He pulls the window next to his head closed, and then leans his head against the cold pane, sighing. This is a first—after spending time with someone in the observatory, he’ll be leaving still hard—and far less than satisfied.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 4: Section 2.2 - Maintaining Satisfactory Interpersonal Relationships with Peers and Teachers


	4. Section 2.2 - Maintaining Satisfactory Interpersonal Relationships with Peers and Teachers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal for this chapter in my outline was "Get this shit going." Hope you enjoy, I think this is my favorite chapter. Please take care of yourself today and in the upcoming weeks.

_Quentin_

“Fuck, that tastes like asshole.” Quentin slams the shot glass down on the bar, wipes his lip, and looks at Kady.

She’s smiling, her green eyes twinkling. “Well, you would know,” she says, as Julia laughs, leaning into her side.

Quentin rolls his eyes, then nudges his glass towards the bartender. “I’ll take another.”

The bartender, Danny (very familiar with Quentin and very straight), smiles as he pours another shot, and then moves down the bar to other customers. The other bartender, Tayler (also very familiar with Quentin but in a much more intimate way than Danny) is staying very pointedly at the other end of the bar. Quentin again reminds himself of all the reasons to not shit where you eat, and god, that is the most disgusting metaphor. Of all the people to fuck and never call again, the bartender at your favorite bar is a very stupid choice. Especially if you’re a functioning alcoholic.

Quentin swallows his shot, and _fuck_ he could vomit it tastes so nasty, like gasoline and oil—who in their right mind would drink whatever brand of whiskey this is for pleasure? Kady breaks up laughing in his peripheral— _oh yeah_ , she would.

The burn feels good though, and he knows it’ll have him halfway to fucked up faster than anything else the bar offers. And tonight, he wants to get fucked up.

He’d resisted initially when Julia asked him to come out tonight. His plans for this Friday night had been to try out some new edibles from Josh and maybe get blackout drunk. He really didn’t want to be around people. But Julia had decided that he _needed_ to be around people, and at 6PM that night she’d actually shown up at Brakebills, hands on her hips, declaring “You are _not_ spending tonight alone,” and suddenly he was wearing one of his nicer gray button-downs, tight black jeans and a black leather jacket that he had forgotten was even in his closet. (“That's mine?” he’d asked Julia when she’d pulled it out. “Yes,” she’d replied, rolling her eyes. “I got it for you for Christmas two years ago, put it on.”). Then he was portaling to the city and basically being dragged to dinner and to their favorite hedge bar.

He doesn’t even know why tonight is a big deal. Tomorrow is the day. The day that he would prefer to just fucking sleep through, hence his plans for as much drugs and booze as his body could safely handle. Maybe even a little more than that.

And _that_ last thought is probably why Julia wants to make sure he isn’t alone tonight. And as she smiles up at Kady, and then looks over at him, he feels that eternal gratefulness wash over him. How fucking lucky he is that someone as magnificent as Julia is looking out for him. God knows he doesn't deserve her.

There’s no way he’d be breathing right now if not for her. She’d singlehandedly pulled him out of the darkest pits of despair, and every time he tried to climb back in (too many times to count at this point), she’s there again, grabbing his hand, pulling with all her weight, crying right alongside him until he falls to his knees on the outer rim, his face buried in his hands so he doesn’t have to see the worry and fucking fear in her eyes.

The past five years were the worst of Quentin’s life. Actually, there is no ‘were,’ he is currently _living_ the worst fucking years of his life. Every time he thinks that maybe things are getting better, or just not completely shitty, he’ll close his eyes and see platinum blonde hair, a wicked grin. He’ll hear that beautiful laugh, twisted and mocking. And that’s fine, really. That’s how his life should be. That’s what he deserves.

And now, he’s… he’s on the edge again. Of completely fucking it all up. Balancing on the rim of one of those dark caverns, arms out to keep his balance, but the truth is there’s never been a time that he wanted to fall in more. Just turn to the darkness, bend his knees, and fucking swan dive all the way down. These past two weeks have been even more of an emotional rollercoaster than this time of year usually is, and Quentin doesn’t have to look all that far to see the cause.

Eliot Waugh.

He’d nearly done the stupidest thing he could have, which would have been mauling Eliot to the floor of the Observatory and finding out just how masculine his tastes ran. How he’d held himself back—in the haze of pot and liquor—he had no idea.

He’d nearly turned tail and ran when he’d first walked in and saw Eliot sitting there, blowing smoke rings out the observatory window, the sexiest thing Quentin had seen since… well, since earlier that week when he’d seen Eliot in class. And when Eliot had held up a joint and invited him to sit down—he should have left. Immediately. But instead his feet had taken him across the tower and right in front of Eliot, where he’d proceeded to _get high_ with a _student_ on _school grounds_.

To say he was walking on thin ice was an understatement, but that night, if it had broken under him, he would have drowned more content than he'd felt in years. They’d been teasing during their entire conversation—Eliot with his flirtations, and casual touches when passing the joint back and forth—which _yes_ , Quentin was the first one to make that move, but _come on_ , if it was the closest he could get to pressing his body against Eliot, his lips wrapped around the same joint Eliot’s had been, then he’d take it. He remembered laughing with him, at what he couldn't even remember, but when Eliot smiled, _really_ smiled, not the generic ‘aren’t you cute’ smile he wore most days, Quentin felt a pang of tenderness in his chest that he thought didn’t exist anymore.

Then when Eliot offered up his pocket watch to show off his mending—that little pang upgraded into a slight ache, warmth spreading from his chest to his stomach, tingling up the back of his neck. Eliot had looked so _delighted_ with himself; he was much more similar to Margo than Quentin even realized. He’d started to cast, and Quentin had immediately zeroed in on Eliot’s hands—he’d fantasized about them so much in the past two weeks, it was borderline obsessive. Those hands on his face, moving down his neck, his shoulders, chest and stomach, wrapped around his dick. Those long, lithe fingers thrusting inside him, opening him up, readying him for Eliot’s cock. He remembered the outline of it in that picture he’d seen; the one he wished he’d saved. He was sure his memory had colored it to be more… _exciting_ than it actually had been. At any rate, he’d be more than willing to do the comparison.

Quentin had managed to pull fantasy-Eliot out of his asshole and focus on real-Eliot, who was trying to mend the watch. Quentin immediately saw where he was off with his index finger, and Quentin reached out to correct it—and everything had gone to shit.

As soon as his fingers touched Eliot’s skin, all remaining thoughts of professional decorum had flown out the window (though, what could really be left after he’d decided it was a good idea to get high with a student?), and he was consumed with the buzz charging through his body, his body tensing and his pulse surging at the smallest touch. Even beyond the physical, the way his magic just _responded_ to Eliot’s, a crazy rush from his ankles to his ears, like it wanted to be _close_ to Eliot almost as much as Quentin himself did, nearly knocked him off-kilter.

He pushed Eliot’s hands into the proper position, and then, in a moment of complete self-indulgence, he’d slid his fingers down Eliot’s wrists, almost easing his fingertips into the sleeve of his shirt to caress his forearm. His head hadn’t been in control at that point. At least not the one on his shoulders.

Eliot’s eyes had opened, looking first at the repaired watch, and then at Quentin. Whatever he’d seen on Quentin’s face had darkened his hazel eyes immediately, and it had taken everything within Quentin to not lean forward and kiss him until he couldn't breathe.

Instead, in his stupor, he’d asked Eliot the first thing that came into his mind— _what did it feel like_? And when Eliot had replied, “Like I helped it wake up. And remember what it was before,” Quentin’s hands had spasmed and tightened around Eliot’s because Quentin knew _exactly what he was talking about_.

Minor Mending was his discipline, which, in his opinion, was a pretty boring discipline, especially when compared to Telekinesis or Cryomancy or whatever. When he’d first learned it in first year (from Mayakovsky during the fucking trials, of all places), he’d been sorely disappointed. All of his other friends had disciplines that would fit right in on the pages of a comic or fantasy book—Alice and Kady were on the front lines, battling evil villains with their light-bending invisibility and battle magic. Julia was back at the lair, creating new spells and gadgets for their exploits. And Quentin was also back at the lair… as the fucking janitor or comic relief, cleaning up broken furniture that Kady damaged during her magic battling.

But once Quentin had gotten over the blandness of it all and actually learned about what he could do with his magic, he fell in love with it. Every time he mended something, it was like he was helping it back on the right path. He was a hero. At least to that little mug that was no longer shattered on the floor. And he absolutely spent too much time thinking about the irony that one of the most broken people had the ability to fix almost anything he set his eyes on.

That feeling was so hard to put into words, the rightness he felt when he worked in his discipline, but Eliot had captured it in just two sentences. And with those words, Quentin had felt not only a chemistry so heated it was a wonder he was not made of ashes, but also a flicker of life in a part of his heart that had been cold and dark for years. He was split in two—half of him was poised and ready to dive into that dark pit he’d been circling, where he would fall into Eliot’s arms, pull him close, and find out how he tasted. The other half of him, a much louder part, was scrambling away, yelling, screaming at him to fucking _shut this down. Now_.

Eliot had been leaning in, he’d been inches away, _they were going to kiss_ , and Quentin had shot out of the observatory like a bat out of hell. What the fuck was he doing? Getting high with a student? About to _kiss_ a student? (And Quentin _knew_ it wouldn’t stop at a kiss; one touch of Eliot’s lips and any willpower he had a very tenuous hold on would vanish.) Visions of Julia, Alice, Fogg, and his dad, for some reason, flashed through his head—the disappointment in their eyes at hearing he not only got fired, but fired for _sexual relations_ with a _student_.

He practically ran all the way back to his room, where he’d locked his bedroom door and jerked off, not even pretending to not think about Eliot, about his fingers against Quentin’s palms, and how they’d look fisted around his cock. Then he’d taken a sleeping pill and crashed, waking up well after noon the next day, but still feeling exhausted.

He’s spent the weeks since then trying to fall back into his normal routine—wake up, pot, class, pot and/or booze, fall into bed, rinse, repeat. He’s hardly looked Eliot in the eye during classes, has cancelled said classes twice, and Eliot hasn’t tried to talk to him either. Perhaps he senses that they’re too close to a line, one Eliot doesn’t really want to cross either. He can feel Eliot’s eyes on him, though. Hot against his skin, almost blistering. As he lectures in class, he has to force himself to _not look not look_ and of course he always fucking looks and Eliot is leaning back in his desk chair, watching him and Quentin _just keeps talking_ because what else is there to do as he goes slowly insane?

His ‘normal’ routine, though, hasn’t returned, not since that first day of class. Usually he goes out to the city at least once a week, finds someone to hook up with, or he meets a date. And while he’s flipped through his dating apps several times in the past month, he always closes them after a few minutes, not finding anyone that catches his eye. He blames that on the calendar—every year he gets more anxious as the anniversary gets closer. As the leaves become a bright palette of reds and oranges and the temperatures decrease, his guilt increases. He refuses to consider the possibility that now there is only one person whose face he’s constantly searching for.

His subconscious, though—that bitch is always thinking about Eliot. In addition to the same old nightmares that torture him, a new brand of dream is now invading his sleep. Now he’s tormented as short films of he and Eliot getting to know each other _very_ intimately play behind his eyelids. In his bedroom, his office, the Cottage, the library—no building on Brakebills campus is off limits. He fucks Eliot in his bedroom in the cottage, which Quentin imagines as elegantly decorated as Eliot decorates himself. Eliot blows him in the library as Quentin is pressed up against the sturdy bookshelves. Eliot fingers him while they exchange hand jobs in his classroom, with the door locked but the windows open.

Just last night he had awoken, his cock rock hard and leaking, vivid images of Eliot fucking him while he was bent over Dean Fogg’s desk fresh in his mind. He’d stroked his dick hardly three times before he was coming in his pajama pants, still feeling the ghost of Eliot’s slick chest pressed against his back, Eliot’s fingers slotted through his, whispering something in his ear that he forgot as soon as his eyes opened.

Nearly every goddamn night he dreams of him. They aren't always fucking or blowing or decimating each other—sometimes they’re just sitting together, watching students dance during a party at the Cottage while Eliot plays with his hair, or sitting on Quentin’s bed watching some shitty movie. When Quentin wakes up from those dreams, his heart beats like a sledgehammer in his chest, his cock half-erect, with tears streaming down his face.

He hates those dreams the most.

Maybe tonight, he can find someone to take his mind off Eliot. _Fat fucking chance_. But he has to try, he has to get him out of his head before he does something he can’t take back.

“Dance with us,” Julia says, her hand loosely wrapping around his wrist. She has an arm wrapped around Kady’s waist, and is leaning heavily into her side, feeling the two glasses of wine from dinner and the shots they’ve had at the bar. Kady drops a kiss onto Julia’s head, and then her eyes slide over to Quentin, a blissed out half-smile on her face.

“Not nearly drunk enough for that,” he tells her, picking up the tequila shot Danny just poured for him and tossing it down. So much better than that crap whiskey.

“Go,” he tells her, smiling. “I’ll be here.”

Julia slides her hand from his wrist to his hand, and gives it one tight squeeze. She and Kady maneuver over to the dance floor, Julia’s hands swaying above her head as Kady starts to move her hips.

Quentin watches them for a while—seeing Julia in any state of happiness warms him. She deserves it. That and so much more, for all the shit she’s put up with from him. He smiles as she and Kady move together, arms around each other’s necks, hips moving in tandem as they kiss, sometimes sweet, but usually just on the safe side of raunchy. He averts his eyes and surveys the room, not really needing to see too much of his best friends' love lives.

He orders a cognac and takes a large drink, enjoying the wave of tipsiness that washes over him. He’s feeling good, more than he should tonight, considering the new day arriving in just a few short hours. But he’s not supposed to think about that. So he doesn’t, and he downs nearly half his drink as he sits on a barstool and surveys the crowd.

It’s a Friday night; the bar is full but not quite crowded. This place is a favorite for Julia and Kady because of it’s good liquor and music, and while Julia is the dancer of the trio, it never takes much convincing to get Kady out there with her. Anything that ends up with her hands on Julia’s body is never a hard sell.

Quentin also likes the liquor selection, in addition to their general apathy towards smoking weed inside, and the large magician crowd—he wonders if it’s enchanted so muggles will just pass on by, as he never sees anyone looking around in amazement at the enchanted floating lights, the random fireworks displays that occur every hour in various corners of the bar, or the crazy wall decor that defies the laws of physics by staying upright and in place (most places have hubcaps on the walls, this bar has the entire front end of several vintage cars poking down from the high ceilings, their headlights serving as the main lighting). Magic thrums in the air, from the wards that automatically dispel any cigarette/weed smoke to the shrouding charms that muffle the sound of the loud music, depending on where you sit..

That’s where Quentin is now—he can see Julia and Kady still thumping to the beat, but he just hears the muffled bass, low enough for him to just make out the voice next to him say, “Is this seat taken?”

He turns and sees short blonde hair and bright blue eyes attached to a chiseled jaw, sprinkled with a day's growth of facial hair. His eyes travel lower to a black polo shirt, khakis, and an IPA in his hand. _Cute. Preppy. Willing. Completely different from tall, smoldering, and off-limits._

“It is now,” Quentin says, a practiced smile gracing his face. “I’m Quentin. Can I get you another?” He nods to his new friend's nearly empty beer bottle.

“Sure,” he says, smiling easily. His teeth are straight, and way too white against his tanned face. He must play like, water polo or something. “I’m Andy.” He gives Quentin the once-over, and Quentin gets that good down-low tickle of ‘I can get laid tonight’ that he is very familiar with. But tonight, that feeling has a friend—a near stab of something in his stomach that feels very similar to the guilt he felt every time he went to bed with someone new the first few times after Alice wasn’t in the picture anymore.

Quentin knows he doesn’t really have ‘game.’ But after over four years of trolling dating apps and bars looking for hook-ups, he has learned how to get what he needs for a night. He stuck to apps the first couple of years—it was much easier for him to connect via texts and pictures than face to face. That hasn’t really changed, and while he’s still not one to strike up a conversation with a beautiful stranger at a crowded bar, he’s much more open to mingling with the crowd than he used to be. He knows, by this point, that some people find him attractive. He reeks of disaster, and he’s learned that scent can draw people that want casual sex like a bear to honey.

Quentin makes small talk with Andy over a drink, finding out that he graduated from Brakebills a few years ahead of Quentin, now lives in Austin, is in town visiting a friend, and while he doesn’t play water polo he does play pickleball, which sounds supremely boring but whatever, his extracurriculars won’t determine how good he is at sucking cock. Or maybe they will, but in the good way.

They order another round, and Quentin glances over to see Kady and Julia sitting at a nearby table with half-full drinks in front of them; Kady smirks at him while Julia shoots him a small smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and even from here Quentin can see the slight worry on her face. He gives her a small smile as Andy goes on about longhorns or something (does he work on a farm?), and she brightens a bit. They’ve had many talks over the past couple of years about his active… social life. “You’re gonna have to link a portal somewhere besides New York after you fuck everybody here,” were her exact words, just a few months ago. To which he’d replied, “Jules, it’s not technically possible for me to fuck everyone in New York. I’ll move to the outer Boroughs when I’m done with Manhattan.”

Whatever. He was safe, and never so inebriated that he didn’t have everyone’s enthusiastic consent. He’d already tried the sure and steady relationship, and everyone saw how that turned out. It was better this way. He got what he wanted, so did his partner, everyone had fun, no one got hurt.

Andy is cute, and from the way his hand lingers over Quentins when he hands Quentin a napkin, Quentin knows the point where someone suggests going somewhere ‘more comfortable’ is rapidly approaching. Quentin never offers to bring someone back to his place (since ‘his place’ is a room in a shared dorm on campus, and it’s much easier for him to leave rather than try to kick out someone that wants to stay the night), but he can usually steer them to their place, the bathroom, even a dark alley once or twice (not his proudest or cleanest moment, but you do what you gotta do).

Sure enough, just a few minutes later Andy leans forward, puts his hand on Quentin’s thigh and says, “Wanna get out of here? My hotel is just a few blocks up.”

His hand is warm against Quentin’s leg, and his dick twitches at the thought of getting between Andy’s skin and his hotel bed sheets. That feeling in his gut though, the one that had been just a little stab, is now starting to twist. He doesn't know where that’s coming from, but he _does_ know he hasn’t gotten laid in a month. This will make him feel better. It always does, at least for a few hours. He glances over to Julia and Kady’s table to find it empty—they must have gone back to dancing or to the bathroom or something.

He’s opening his mouth to respond when something catches his eye over on the dance floor. A tall figure moving in the flashing lights, a familiar smile… His gut really _does_ twist and his heart nearly drops to the floor as he recognizes Eliot. His face lights up for a moment, washed in all colors of the rainbow as a little fireworks display explodes above the dancers, everyone smiling in delight as the little sparkles crackle and fade. Eliot’s face is tilted up, his eyes closed as his body moves, a slight smile on his face.

Quentin stares, everything else around him forgotten as Eliot opens his eyes and looks down at his dance partner, a man a head shorter than him with long brown hair, and as Eliot puts his fingers under the man’s chin, Quentin feels something roar within him and everything else disappears.

Eliot is here, probably on a date. Of course he is—why wouldn’t he be? He’s an attractive young man, an attractive _single_ young man, or maybe he's _involved_ with the guy he’s currently smiling down at, it’s not like what he does is Quentin’s _business_ , why should he even _care_? Quentin’s insides are boiling and he just wants to burn the entire place down.

“Hey,” Andy said, squeezing Quentin’s thigh. “You with me?”

Quentin’s gaze snaps back to Andy, who is no longer smiling but arching an eyebrow at him. Quentin feels like his skin is buzzing, he’s just enough over the edge of tipsy to be considered drunk and all he wants to do is get the fuck out—no, all he wants to do is stride over to whoever the fuck is grinding up on Eliot and take his place or make some kind of a mark on Eliot’s lips and neck like a _claim_ but nope—can’t do that, no way, and he _really_ needs to get out of here.

“Yeah, sorry,” he tells Andy, unable to stop his head from swiveling back to Eliot.

And _shit_ , _fuck_ , Eliot has stopped dancing and is looking directly at him. Something snaps between them, tight and ringing, and Quentin can’t look away. Quentin sees the surprise on Eliot’s face, his eyes widen and then narrow as he looks from Quentin to Andy, to Andy’s hand still warm on his thigh and then back to Quentin. He frowns and he’s completely stopped dancing by this point. His partner says something, and Eliot responds, still looking at Quentin. Then Eliot breaks away, taking a step in his direction.

Quentin swallows and looks back to Andy, who by now has let go of his thigh and has leaned back on his barstool. “Sorry,” Quentin says again. “I—uh—I’m not feeling great.” Before Andy can reply, Quentin is off the stool and moving fast towards the exit. He’ll send Julia a text; he just needs to get out of this damn bar.

He’s across the bar and out the door in seconds, the cold fall air making him pull his leather jacket tighter around himself.

 _Fuck_. Emotions are _stupid_. What is this _anger_ in his belly, anxiety _coursing_ through his limbs that makes his fingers shake as he shoves them in his pocket, blowing a harsh breath out through his teeth. He’s not _jealous_. He’s not. Why would he be _jealous_ of his student out having a fun time on a weekend? There’s no _reason_ for that so therefore he is just _anxious_ about tomorrow and _unhappy_ about dealing with it and that’s it nothing else—

“Quentin!”

He stops short at hearing his name, right in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a couple to almost run into him. They glare as they move past him, but Quentin doesn’t give a shit. He knows that voice, and he’s quickly sobering up in the cold air but not quickly enough.

He doesn’t turn around, and from the quick breath behind him, he knows his pursuer has stopped and is at his back. “Eliot,” he says. “Go back to the bar.”

“No,” Eliot says immediately, and Quentin sighs, turning around, moving over to the side of the building out of the path of pedestrians, looking up as Eliot follows. _Fuck, why does he have to be so tall?_

Of course, he’s gorgeous. Dressed in tight black skinny pants and a well-fitting patterned button-down, no tie or suspenders today, just simple and classic with that hair just… fucking askew in that stupid _sexy_ way. This is just so unfair, how can he just _walk around_ looking like that, gazing down at Quentin with that amused yet irritated expression, like how you'd look at a child you had to discipline but just wanted to giggle at instead. Determination is also shining in those eyes, and Quentin knows he’s not going to just be able to just brush him off tonight.

Not that he wants to.

But he has to.

“Eliot,” Quentin says again. “Don’t—don’t follow me. Just, trust me. Go back to the bar, to your date.” Quentin takes a step away, poised to continue walking down the sidewalk.

“He’s not my date,” Eliot says quickly, shivering a bit as he steps closer to Quentin. They’re next to the side of a brick building; the portal is just a few blocks away. It’s not that late, but late enough for people to be streaming by them on the sidewalk.

“You don’t have your jacket,” Quentin says as Eliot stands in front of him, his eyes intent, searching Quentin’s face. “It’s cold.”

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Eliot says. Which is, yes, a fact, Quentin will wear contacts when he goes out, not wanting to worry about his glasses when he’s doing… whatever, wherever he may wind up. Not that _glasses_ really equate to _jacket_ , his glasses don’t keep his eyes _warm_. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he continues, and Quentin’s heart nearly stops in his chest. Warning bells, sirens, flashing signs—this is not good. _Not good_. Eliot takes a step closer. Quentin can smell the liquor on his breath, even from a foot away.

“Well—don’t. Stop,” Quentin says, as his eyes roam Eliot’s face, down his neck, the top few buttons on his shirt are undone and chest hair is just peeping out and _how_ is he supposed to just _be an adult_ and say _no_ to this?

Eliot cracks a small smile, sliding just a little bit closer along the wall. "Don't stop?" he says, and Quentin takes in his bloodshot eyes and realizes he's more than just drunk. Quentin sighs, leaning against the brick as everything tilts for a second. He’s not exactly a shining example for sobriety himself, at the moment. Or any moment, really.

“Eliot—just—please go back to the bar. You don’t really want this.”

Eliot frowns. “I’m a big boy, _Professor_ ,” he says, huffing out a breath. _Oh trust me I am so fucking aware of that._ Eliot’s words, with the delightful emphasis on ‘Professor', light up an entire section of Quentin's hindbrain—one that is shiny and new and ready to be explored. Eliot is making him learn all kinds of interesting things about himself.

“I know what I want. The question is,” Eliot says, Quentin holding his breath as Eliot leans into his space, “What do _you_ want?”

Quentin’s mouth goes dry as his brain spins with acceptable responses. _For you to go back to Brakebills and sober up—A nice cold glass of water—A redo of the last five years—An actual responsible adult_ —but what comes out is, “What I want doesn’t matter.”

Eliot’s face grows softer, the frown disappearing and his eyes searching Quentin’s face. “It does to me,” he says quietly. Cold fingers encircle Quentin's palm, and he closes his eyes as Eliot slots their fingers together and squeezes.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, talking to his shoes, not moving away as Eliot inches closer, “You don’t know me. I’m not—even if we could—it’s not a good idea. I’m not worth it. I’ll just disappoint you.”

He can hear Eliot’s smirk as he speaks. “Well, if you’re trying to turn me off, telling me about your baggage isn’t the best approach. Damaged goods? Tell me more. Where do I sign?”

Quentin barks out a laugh in spite of himself, unable to stop from squeezing Eliot’s hand. Fuck, it feels good to be touched like this. He’s touched a lot of people in the past few years… but he’s never really let himself feel them. Just holding Eliot’s hand, on the side of a busy New York sidewalk while people are ignoring them, completely unaware of the ticking time bomb they’ve passed by, is the closest Quentin has felt to another person in years.

He looks up into Eliot’s eyes, and that string snaps back into place between them, stretched so taught it’s going to break at any second. Eliot is just inches away, reeking of whiskey and cigarette smoke and a slight tinge of cinnamon, curls falling over his forehead, his lips slightly parted. He’s smiling down at Quentin and he squeezes his hand again. And just like that, the string snaps, and Quentin surges forward and captures Eliot’s lips with his own.

Eliot is surprised, motionless for a second. Quentin’s kiss is tentative, chaste, Eliot’s lower lip caught between Quentin’s. A beat passes and Eliot’s free hand moves up to Quentin’s neck, to cradle his face as he tilts his head, pulling away slightly to adjust and then returning the kiss, a little surprised noise in his throat.

And it’s good. _It’s good_. It’s a kiss on the sidewalk outside a bar in the city under a dim streetlight where the entire world can see but it’s a kiss in the dark between two strangers that have spent only hours together but somehow connect in a way no one is meant to understand but them. It’s a kiss Quentin shouldn’t have the privilege of experiencing, one he doesn’t deserve. The way his mind just goes quiet, the noise and static that plague him all day disappearing and there is nothing but a beautiful darkness and the scent, taste of Eliot right on top of him. He could fall into it, disappear forever and _fuck_ how much he wishes he could.

Eliot’s tongue touches Quentin's and he tastes like hard liquor and pot and then a cold breeze sweeps through; Eliot shivers and his fingers tighten around Quentin’s, still cold but warming up, and suddenly the world just _erupts_ around Quentin, voices and laughter on the sidewalk, horns beeping in the street, it all just _slams_ into him that he is _kissing_ a _student_ on the sidewalk next to a bar and _what the fuck is wrong with him_? Is he this desperate to destroy anything good in his life?

He pulls back abruptly, stepping out of Eliot’s grip, Eliot chasing him for a moment, his eyes still closed. They open slowly, as if he’s coming awake from a deep sleep, taking a second to focus on Quentin.

Quentin is still holding Eliot’s hand, and he drops it quickly, taking another step back, running his fingers through his hair as he looks around. No one seems to notice them, or care what they’re doing. “Eliot—I’m sorry—I—”

“I’m not.” Eliot’s eyes are clear as he stares at Quentin, his gaze focused on Quentin’s lips, and it’s all Quentin can do to not pull him into another kiss. But he _cannot do this_.

Quentin half laughs; how the fuck did he wind up here? “This _cannot_ happen. I’m your teacher. I’m—like, ten years older than you.” His voice is a harsh whisper. Eliot is still staring at him dumbly, not saying anything. One hand rises to his face, and he touches his bottom lip like he’s checking to see if maybe Quentin is still attached. _Please stop looking at me like that_ , he wants to say. _It makes it really hard to not just climb you like a fucking tree._

Eliot opens his mouth to respond, and Quentin rushes on. “My job is the only thing I have done right in the past five fucking years, and just barely, at that. I can’t lose this. I just—we _can’t_. Okay?” He knows he’s basically pleading at this point, which, he needs to just walk away. _Walk away_. The taste of whiskey still lingers on his lips.

Eliot is still staring at him, but his face changes, understanding and some kind of shame falling over his face. He looks down at the ground, and clears his throat. “Ok.” He nods, and then looks back at Quentin. “Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—” Quentin huffs, running a hand through his hair again; he really should just shave it off at this point, he's on track to just yank it all out at this rate. “Don’t apologize. This is my fault.”

Eliot chuckles. “Takes two to tango.”

Quentin looks back down at the ground, and then back to Eliot. _One more kiss wouldn’t hurt, right?_ “You good to get back to campus?”

Eliot nods. “Yeah, I’m good. The portal’s not far from here, so…”

Quentin nods. “Okay. I’ll see you in class?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you.” Eliot looks at him for a long moment, and Quentin has to literally press his hand against the wall to stop himself from swaying forward into him. Then Eliot nods and pulls away from the wall, pulling down on his shirt, straightening it. He turns back in the direction of the bar, stepping away.

Quentin watches him go for a second, and then turns, closing his eyes, leaning back against the brick, the surface rough and cold against the back of his head. He still feels like he's swaying even as he's standing still, and he needs a few moments to pull himself together enough to get back to the portal. He's about to leave when he hears Eliot call out, "Quentin!"

Quentin warily opens his eyes, not sure if he has the willpower to reject Eliot a second time. But Eliot has walked a few feet down the sidewalk, and is currently stopped half-turned to look at Quentin over his shoulder.

"Seven," he says, people flowing around him, like he’s a traffic cone in the street.

Quentin blinks at him. "Okay…?"

"You're seven years older than me. Not ten." With a final, sad half-smile, Eliot disappears into the crowd.

~~~

Quentin makes it back to his room, remembering to text Julia before he showers. He has a handful of messages from her, assuming he went off with pickleball Andy, and to please check in with her. He replies, letting her know he wasn’t feeling well, is at his own home, very alone, and he’ll text her in the morning. She sends back a reply asking to please have breakfast or brunch or lunch or snacks or dinner or anything at all the next day. He ignores it. He does look at the time, though. 12:48AM. The earliest he’s been back at his place after a night out in a long time, actually.

He leans against the wall of the shower, his forehead pillowed on his arm as the water cascades down his body. Five years. Five years ago was the worst night of his life, although it’s in a constant battle for the title with the night that occurred months later. He’s always heard the grief will lessen over time. At first it’s a huge wave that knocks you down, leaves you drenched and choking. And every day that wave gets a little bit smaller, until eventually you can stay upright, and maybe one day walk normally while it just bats at your ankles.

And when it comes to the grief, the heavy sadness that he carried on his back for so long… Quentin thinks that’s true. It still hurts, but it’s not as heavy anymore, not like the boulder that he used to carry daily. Those mornings he’d wake up and for a second, just a fucking _magical_ second, he’d forget. He’d roll over and expect to see her kind eyes, shining with love as she’d run her fingers through his hair. But he would only find cold bed sheets, he’d _remember_ , and the boulder of grief would drop down on his chest, taking his breath away. That boulder is smaller now. Time has chipped it down to a good-sized rock. Quentin can carry it in his pocket, and while it weighs him down, it doesn’t drag him down.

But the guilt? That’s a fucking anvil strapped to his back that will never, ever lessen. It can’t. He needs it to remember that it’s _his_ fault. It will never _not_ be his fault. Because he is _weak_. Alice died because he wasn’t strong enough. Five years at Brakebills, living his life one shot at a time, having learned _nothing_. He’s still fucking weak, as evidenced last night when he’d crossed his own fucking line in full view of anyone on the street.

He could get fired. He _should_ get fired. Fogg lets him get away with a lot, but Quentin doubts even he would look the other way if Quentin fucks a student.

But he hadn’t gone that far. He _wouldn’t_. It was just a kiss. That’s it. Nothing more.

And that kiss…Quentin has kissed a lot of people. So many more than he ever thought he would. Like, if you asked the Quentin of ten years ago how many people he would kiss in his lifetime, he’d turn really red and stutter out, “I—I dunno, like five? Do relatives count?” His mind would be blown if he knew what the future held for him, at least in terms of kissing. And fucking. In all other aspects, he would probably be much less excited. And more than a little horrified.

Quentin couldn’t remember over half the people he’d kissed, let alone what it was like actually kissing them, but that kiss with Eliot… he would never forget. When Eliot’s lips had touched his, he’d gotten a glimpse of a type of peace that wasn’t designed for people like him. The warmest kind of quiet, where they were the only two people that existed, a click within his soul not unlike when he successfully completed a complex mending . It had felt so _right_. But it hadn’t been. It was wrong. It _is_ wrong.

And that thought rings in his mind, even now, as he thinks of Eliot’s mouth opening over his, instantly responding to Quentin, a small moan escaping Eliot’s throat. _You shouldn’t be doing this_. But he can’t stop his hand from drifting down his chest, his stomach, to grasp his hardening cock. He should regret that kiss, their lips and hands touching in the cold. He’s _supposed to_. But he doesn’t. He never will.

At least he got to experience it once. That one kiss will have to carry him through the rest of term, until he doesn’t have to see Eliot in his class weekly. It will have to be enough.

As he strokes his dick harder and faster, his breath coming in quick gasps that echo in the small bathroom, he can’t help but think, _It won’t_.

~~~

The fountain looks the same as it always does. Water flowing fast and freely above a sculpture of Romulus and Remus sucking on the tits of a female wolf, which, Quentin can appreciate the aesthetic Brakebills was going for, but come on, it’s creepy as fuck. Quentin sits down on a bench in front of the fountain, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. The night air is chilly, and he’s in his usual jeans and a t-shirt, with an oversized hoodie.

For reasons he never bothered to articulate, Quentin never avoided the fountain after it all went down, despite the fact that it was the site of one of the most horrific events of his life. He’d actually visited it near daily for several months, once he could actually get out of bed. Julia or Fogg or Penny would always suddenly magically appear any time he’d sat on this bench, ready to spring into action at any moment if Quentin decided to go for a running leap into the fountain. Which he’d never done.

Not that he hadn’t thought about it. It was nicknamed the 'Suicide Fountain,' after all.

It was a little insane, but being at the fountain made him feel closer to Alice. Or it had, at least for a little while. Her body had died there, her humanity. She did have a gravestone, near her parents home. He’d visited it once. Julia had been with him, holding his hand as they watched her coffin being lowered into the ground in front of it.

But Alice wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere, now. And Quentin felt like he needed to be at the fountain, to remember how she had died. Relive it. He’d realized sooner rather than later that he didn’t need to be here to torment himself, he could do that just fine from anywhere. And his visits had slowed to just once or twice a year. On important days. Like today.

 _Why the fuck is this still even here?_ he thinks, as he takes a puff on his cigarette. It’s just before midnight on Saturday. He’s sober for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, and as he looks around him, he wonders why he’s waited until now to make this visit.

To his right is where he’d stood, pleading with Alice to stop, _fucking stop_ before you kill yourself. To his left is where she’d last stood, casting, not listening, focused only on her brother. Or what she thought was her brother. And just two feet to his left… he tears his eyes away and looks back at the fountain, flowing just as steadily now as it had five years ago.

It's said to be bottomless. So many people had lost their lives here. Again, _why the fuck_ was it still here? Fogg could have it covered over, ripped out, warded it up so no one could get in it, something. But it’s still here, just as beautiful and deadly as ever. Probably for the same reason Lipson could only provide him pills and not an actual therapist. Not that he’d go even if Brakebills actually had one.

Just a few minutes left in this fucking day. He’d spent it all in bed, or on the floor of his bedroom, high off his ass, ignoring his phone and any knocks on his door. Well, he had yelled at Penny that he was fine and to go the fuck away, just to stop him from breaking the door down, but that had been the extent of his human interaction for the day. It was more than enough.

He looks up at the clear night sky, thousands of stars twinkling back at him. His gaze is drawn over to his left, where he can just barely make out the top of the observation tower. His thoughts turn, as they have numerous times today, to Eliot. Is he up in the tower now, smoking? Meeting someone? Quentin sighs, finishing up his cigarette and tutting it away.

Being alone sucks.

He has his flask tucked into his pants, hidden by his hoodie. He’d filled it with vodka just before he left, knowing he’d probably need it. It’s weight is comforting against his side, but he doesn’t reach for it quite yet. Tonight isn’t hurting as bad as it usually does. The guilt… doesn’t feel quite as heavy tonight. Like maybe he can slide it in his pocket instead of carrying it across his shoulders.

He’s about to leave when someone steps up next to his bench. “This seat taken?” Quentin stills, his heart jumping into his throat.

“No,” he says, looking up at Eliot as he sits down, all the way on the other side of the bench, a couple of feet away.

“I, uh, saw you sitting here. I thought about just leaving you be, but… it’s late,” he says, looking at Quentin, then back to the fountain.

He looks like he had a day very similar to Quentin’s. His hair is tousled in a way that appears like he’s been running his hands through it. He has dark circles under his eyes, and though his eyes are clear, they look exhausted as they trace over Quentin. He’s in his usual slacks and a plain button-down shirt, no tie or suspenders, shirt untucked and wrinkled. Even unkempt, he’s still gorgeous.

Quentin says nothing, just nods and pulls out his flask. He suddenly feels like he’ll need it. He opens it, but doesn't drink, and in a move that proves he has learned absolutely nothing in the past day, offers it to Eliot. Eliot looks at it, considering. Then he shakes his head.

“I’m still recovering from last night,” he says, shifting in his seat.

Quentin nods, thanking Eliot for saving him from himself at least this once, and tucks it back in his hoodie without drinking any himself. “You’re not the only one,” he says, knowing the sentence is loaded. He looks over at Eliot, who meets his eye and nods once.

They sit in silence for a few moments, each waiting for the other to say something. The air is heavy with what they’re not saying, what they _could be_ saying, and Quentin’s leg starts to twitch. Seeing Eliot’s face just brings it all back again, and before he can replay that kiss in his mind _again_ , Quentin breaks, asking, “Out for a late night walk? Heading to a party?”

Eliot smiles, hands clasped in his lap. “Uh, no. I mean, there is something at the Cottage tonight, but I’m just not in the mood, really. I was, uh… up in the Observatory Tower. Taking the scenic route back to the Cottage.”

Quentin nods. He hadn’t been back since that night with Eliot. Had Eliot been back there, waiting for him? Hoping he’d show up? The idea made his face grow warm, his thighs tense, even as that little voice in his head whispered _Don't be stupid. No one would wait for you._

“Pretty depressing place to hang out,” Eliot says, nodding towards the fountain.

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “I just…” he trails off, not able to, or wanting to come up with some excuse for being out here. He looks over at Eliot, who is watching him. There’s no heat in his gaze, just a naked openness that makes Quentin's palms start to sweat. Quentin’s eyes drop to Eliot’s hands, and he is seized by an urge to slide over and slot their fingers together, just as Eliot had the night before. As he looks back to Eliot’s face, he feels split open, lain bare in front of that earnest expression.

“Remember how I said October is—is difficult for me?” he asks, looking back at the fountain. The water just keeps flowing and flowing, much like Quentin's mouth right now.

“Yeah,” Eliot responds, fully turning his upper half towards Quentin, listening attentively. Quentin inhales a shaky breath.

“Today, in particular… is the hardest. It’s an… anniversary of sorts. Not a good one,” he says, looking over at Eliot. Eliot nods once, and something on his face just hits Quentin right in the chest.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, almost whispering. “I have a few of those.” He turns away from Quentin, looking to the fountain, but not before Quentin sees the pain in his eyes.

It hurts to see that in Eliot’s face. More than Quentin would expect it to. He shifts in his seat, setting his feet firmly in the ground to stop himself from sliding across the bench. This yen, this _wanting_ he feels for Eliot is so strong he thinks it may break him in half. Quentin looks around; they’re the only ones in this part of campus at this hour. Anyone could come by whenever, though. It’s Saturday night, and students are crossing campus moving between the dorms.

The silence returns, but it’s not uncomfortable. It's two men sharing in their pain, offering a quiet comfort just by existing. Eliot inhales sharply, drawing Quentin's attention.

“Last night,” he starts, causing Quentin’s heart to beat out of rhythm for a moment, “I’m really… sorry.” Eliot is not looking at him, staring down at his hands, which are twisting in his lap.

“I didn’t mean—I, uh…” he looks over at Quentin, and then chuckles. “Sorry, I’m usually better at this stuff.” Then he laughs again, glancing up at the sky, and then to the fountain. “Ok, that’s bullshit, I suck at this crap, that’s why I don’t do it. I—I’m sorry for putting you in an awkward position.” He sneaks a glance over at Quentin, who’s staring at him, trying to keep a composed, indifferent look on his face and failing miserably. Eliot licks his lips and looks back at his hands. “You’re a professor, and I'm a student— _your_ student—and I know I was… really drunk and out of it last night. I know you were too, and—”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Quentin says quickly, needing to make it clear that he was in full possession of his facilities. He shifts in his seat, turning more towards Eliot, his mind racing rapidly down a dark path, towards one of those dark pits he’s suddenly so fond of. _This is a bad idea. Shut this down._ But that part of him that he tries so hard to listen to is growing fainter and fainter, drowned out by the part that is yelling _He wants this. You want this._

Eliot pauses, looking at Quentin in surprise. “Well—whatever the case, it was inappropriate. And I won’t bother you again. With that. Kind of thing.”

Quentin holds his gaze for what feels like minutes. He's in the driver's seat now and the road is only getting murkier, but he just can't seem to take his foot off the gas. He's barreling towards something, and he has no control over where he's going or when he gets there.

Eliot continues, “I don’t remember everything I said last night, but I do remember what you said to me… I just want you to know, Quentin—I don’t believe that.”

Quentin frowns, trying to remember their conversation. “Don’t believe what?”

Eliot swallows. “That what you want doesn’t matter.” He looks at Quentin, his eyes soft, but fierce in a way that makes Quentin’s mouth go dry. It’s been a really, _really_ long time since someone has looked at him that way.

Quentin leans forward, wishing the bench weren’t so fucking long, that Eliot had sat down just a few inches closer to him. Eliot turns away before he continues, and Quentin cannot stop staring at him, hunched up on that bench. Far from the clever, buoyant force of life he normally sees around campus, or in his class. In the Observatory Tower. “I know I don’t really know you very well, but… I can already tell you’d be worth it.”

The car has stopped, and Quentin is out the door, staring down into that same dark chasm he was hovering over last night. Eliot is still not looking at Quentin, something Quentin is thankful for, because he knows his heart is on his sleeve right now. His eyes sting and he swallows, trying to control whatever this is welling up in his chest, making his arms and stomach tight. _He’s young_ , he thinks. _He has no idea what he’s talking about._

But as he studies Eliot, Quentin wonders if that's really true.

Right now Eliot is staring at the fountain, in much the same way Quentin had been before Eliot came up on him. And Quentin… he knows that thousand-yard stare. That same look in his eye that Quentin knows has been in his for years. Wondering what it would be like to just jump in and sink until everything is black and you don’t have to worry anymore.

And just like that, Quentin _is_ jumping, falling over the edge, into that dark pit he’s been stumbling around for weeks. He doesn’t even fucking hesitate. He's free falling through the air, and he doesn't give a shit how far it is to the bottom.

“Eliot,” he says in a raspy whisper. Eliot jerks, almost like he had forgotten Quentin was there, and he looks over at him. Quentin clears his throat—”Do you—do you want to come with me to my office?”

Eliot’s brow furrows in confusion. “Your office?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, looking away, suddenly shy. “We can… continue our discussion from last night? That I interrupted.” He can feel his face flame up as he forces himself to meet Eliot’s eye.

He sees Eliot’s eyes widen, and he holds Quentin’s gaze, his mouth opening slightly. “Um,” he says, seemingly at a loss as his eyes move from Quentin, away, and then back again. “Yes. Yeah.”

Quentin nods, and he stands up, Eliot following him. They walk in silence to the Telekinesis and Psychokinesis building, which is dark and quiet. It’s never locked, and Quentin’s office is on the third floor, not far from his classroom. As they climb the stairwell, their hands brush, and Eliot grabs his hand, slotting his fingers between Quentin’s, just as he had the night before.

A giddy feeling sweeps over Quentin, and he's suddenly full of nervous energy. The voice telling him this is a bad idea is just a small murmur that he can't hear over the rapid beat of his own heart.

They reach his office quickly, and Quentin unlocks it and enters, Eliot following and closing the door behind him. Quentin turns on a small desk lamp, casting a dim light across the small room.

Quentin takes off his hoodie, tossing it over his office chair as Eliot stands near the door. Quentin moves to stand in front of his desk, leaning back against it. Eliot stays where he is, looking around Quentin’s office.

Quentin spends a good amount of time in his office during the school year, and it's almost as much of a home to him as his bedroom. It's not huge, but enough room for his desk, a couple of chairs, and a couch shoved against one wall.

Bookshelves line the other wall, stuffed with various magical texts and a large collection of fantasy and classic novels. He watches as Eliot takes it all in, his eyes running over the random fantasy prints and maps on the walls. Most of them are gifts from Julia, received after she'd gotten frustrated that he hadn't bothered to decorate after being at Brakebills over a year. He wonders what Eliot thinks of his messy desk, littered with papers and a few random knick knacks. If he wonders whose pictures are in the frames set aside on a small table in the corner.

Finally Eliot meets Quentin’s eyes, and gives him a weighted look as they stare at each other. The tension rises in the room, and Quentin wonders if Eliot can hear the _thump thump thump_ of his heart against his chest. He wonders if Eliot's is beating just as hard.

Finally Quentin breaks the silence.

“Lock the door.”

~~~

tbc in Chapter 5: Section 2.2 - Exhibit A - Proper Blowjob Etiquette


	5. Section 2.2 - Exhibit A - Proper Blowjob Etiquette

_Eliot_

Standing in a dimly lit faculty office, a few feet away from the man that has been waging a small-scale assault on his senses for the last month, was _not_ where Eliot thought he’d end this day.

His day had started hungover in bed at the cottage, alone. He’d fully intended to end it in that same bed, _probably_ alone but at that point, he’d been open to company if they could make him forget the stupid _feelings_ rattling around in his mind. Even just for a night. A few hours. Fuck, five minutes.

He’s open to anything, really, that might make him feel better than he did last night. This morning. This afternoon. This evening. Eliot had sworn he’d never do this again. After his last relationship ended badly (death is pretty bad), he was determined to revive the love ‘em and leave ‘em reputation he had abandoned as soon as he’d fallen headfirst into Mike’s asshole. Instead, after one kiss, one short, amazing, fucking _life-altering_ kiss on the sidewalk, after which he’d been soundly rejected, he hadn’t done what he should have. Which was to turn around and find some cute, naive boy to drown his sorrows in.

Nope, he’d just turned into an even bigger sap than he’d been after his last breakup. He’d dragged his high ass back to the portal to Brakebills and fallen into bed. Alone, as previously noted. He was even worse now, actually. Last year he’d had the grief to blame it on. Now he had nothing but his own heart to condemn. Now he was moping. Now he was _pining_.

An hour ago he didn’t think there was anything on Earth that could pull him out of his current quest to become the ‘Most Pathetic Student Sitting Alone in the Observatory Tower Staring out the Window While Getting High and Lamenting Over His Incredibly Hot and Unavailable Professor.’

And as he meets Quentin’s heated stare, watching him from behind those glasses, his heart galloping in his chest, Eliot realizes he was wrong. There was one thing that could do it. One person, anyway.

"Lock the door." Eliot had no illusions about why they had come up here, but that low timbre in Quentin’s voice sends a tingle down his spine, makes his stomach flip and his cock twitch. Quentin's eyes are dark as he speaks, his face unreadable. Not even 24 hours ago Eliot had looked into that face and seen a combination of fierce longing and quiet desperation. Now he sees nothing but lust. Anticipation.

He doesn’t know if Quentin can tell he’s anxious, but he is. Pulse racing. Mouth dry. Wishing he’d put more care into his clothes; that morning he’d grabbed whatever was closest, not really caring about anything beyond banishing his hangover and wallowing in his own self-pity.

He can’t remember the last time he was nervous with a guy, but Quentin is unique in so many ways. Even beyond the whole professor angle… something is different. Special.

Eliot turns and, with only a slight tremor in his fingers, flips the latch on the office door, locking it. Locks mean very little in a school full of magicians, but it's unlikely anyone will be walking around the TP building this time of night anyway.

Just those looking for a place to conduct an illicit affair. Interlude. _Rendezvous_.

Last night, Quentin had told him to stop. Stop thinking about him. Like it was just some switch he could flip. If it was, Quentin would have to tell him where it was hiding, because Eliot had searched high and low all day and had only come up with more fantasies about Professor Coldwater. Now that he knows what it feels like to kiss him, he has real, actual evidence that the attraction isn’t one-sided, it’s all he can think about.

When he’d woken up that morning, touching his lips, feeling the brush of Quentin’s kiss still tingling upon them, he’d replayed every moment of their brief conversation on the sidewalk. He couldn’t remember everything about the night before, most of it lost to the magic pot and whatever pill had melted under his tongue earlier that evening. But he remembered the important bits.

Quentin had been wearing a black leather jacket over a tight grey shirt; looking every inch the _versatile_ man that Eliot would have hit on in a second had he just run into him in the bar. He hadn’t been wearing his normal wire-rimmed glasses, leaving his face more open, younger. He could’ve passed for Eliot’s age easily. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, desperate when he’d turned to Eliot and told him to go back to his date. His _date_. Ha. As if he had room for a date in his brain when, ever since that night in the Observatory two weeks prior, basically since that very first class, every spare thought had been of Quentin. _Professor Coldwater_.

_You don’t really want this._

_What I want doesn’t matter._

Eliot’s cold fingers wrapping around Quentin’s warm palm.

_I’m not worth it._

Eliot remembered that statement, so clear among all the chaos, people walking by them, paying no attention to the slow-motion crash occurring feet away from them. Eliot had brushed it off, making a joke about how Quentin was only adding fuel to his fire. And Quentin had laughed. Sharply, without humor. And then he’d looked up into Eliot’s eyes and surged forward and kissed him.

That kiss was unexpected. Eliot had been woefully unprepared for the respite that had overtaken him at the first flutter of Quentin’s lips against his own, the quiet that had eclipsed him. The noise from the street, the buzzing in his head had just disappeared and there was only he and Quentin, his warm fingers tangled with Eliot’s cold ones, his mouth pressing tentatively against Eliot’s.

It had only taken a second for Eliot to sink into it, bring his hand up to touch Quentin’s face, his stubble rough against Eliot’s palm. When he’d parted his lips to deepen this kiss, Eliot could remember thinking, with perfect clarity, that this feeling, this moment was worth anything. _Everything_.

And then it was over. Quentin had pulled away, leaving Eliot reeling.

Eliot had thought about that moment a lot today. Had heard those words over and over again in his head— _I’m not worth it_ —combined with the almost desperate look in Quentin’s eyes right after their kiss. He knew that feeling all too well.

It had led him to the Observatory Tower, the same place he’d spent many a night the prior two weeks. Always climbing those steps alone, and always leaving alone. It had taken Quentin blatantly spelling it out for him—he was a teacher and he could lose his job and no one would be worth that, especially Eliot—for him to finally realize exactly what he was playing with. How serious the consequences could be.

And then, after just one more conversation in front of Brakebills most depressing monument, Eliot realized that he didn’t care about the consequences. Even as the rational part of him (which, to be frank, never really had a seat at the table anyway) told him this was a stupid idea, he hardly knew this guy, every other part of him was screaming that _this was worth it_. Consequences by damned, _Quentin is_ worth it.

With that thought in mind, Eliot turns, locks eyes with Quentin again. They stare at each other, and the air seems to swell, simmer, wrap around them. Both waiting for the other to make the first move.

Something else Quentin had said the night before echo’s through Eliot’s mind. _“My job is the only thing I have done right in the past five fucking years. I cannot lose this.”_

What changed Quentin’s mind? Eliot wants to ask, but he’s here, inches away from his hands on Quentin’s skin, his mouth sliding over Quentin’s, and he’s terrified that the wrong word will bring back the Quentin that pushed him away last night. That told him to forget.

But he’s always been one for enthusiastic consent, and as he glances to the floor, he asks, just above a whisper, “Are you sure?”

He barely has the sentence out before Quentin is standing up from where he’d been leaning against his desk, walking towards him. “Yes,” Quentin says, just before reaching Eliot and pulling his head down to meet his own.

Last night’s kiss had been tentative, almost trembling; Quentin’s lips had been cold from the autumn air. Eliot had been the first to open up, to reach up and touch Quentin's face, to slip his tongue inside the warm heat of his mouth.

That’s not the case tonight.

Tonight, Quentin’s lips are warm. Welcoming. Firm. Resting on Eliot’s for a moment, and then pushing up, his mouth opening to Eliot as his fingers thread through the curls at the nape of Eliot’s neck.

Eliot steps closer, wrapping an arm tight around Quentin’s waist, fisting into the fabric of Quentin’s soft t-shirt, fitting him flush against his body. A quiet groan comes from Quentin’s mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, and pushes back in, angling his head to better fit their lips together.

It’s easy, kissing Quentin. Eliot has had a lot of first kisses, first make-out sessions. Awkward positioning, noses bumping together, teeth clacking. And yeah, there’s some of that. But it’s also effortless, the way they touch and hold each other, how Eliot’s palms slip under the back of Quentin’s shirt to slide up the bare skin of his back, how Quentin grips the nape of Eliot’s neck to keep him in place. It feels like the most natural thing in the world when Quentin breaks away to trail his lips down Eliot’s jaw, giving Eliot the chance to tilt his head back for better access, and to work out the crick forming in his neck from bending down to Quentin’s height. And when Quentin pulls him in the direction of the couch, it’s just Eliot following his own feet to sit down on the firm cushions, guiding his hands over a new, but still somehow well-known path down the back of Quentin’s thighs as he settles over Eliot, straddling him.

As Quentin adjusts himself on top of Eliot, sliding forward so Eliot can feel the hard heat of him, their eyes meet. Quentin’s are dark, heated, forever searching. Eliot reaches up and plucks the glasses off Quentin’s face, sets them on a nearby end table. Somehow, Quentin’s gaze gets even darker as his breath hitches.

Eliot doesn’t know what Quentin’s looking for, but he seems satisfied with whatever he finds, and he leans down, kissing him deep and slow. Then he's breaking away, kissing a path across Eliot's cheek, running his tongue over the delicate skin of Eliot’s ear. His hands are everywhere, on Eliot’s neck, threading through his hair, running down his chest. His teeth bite over Eliot’s throat, and Eliot moans, his hips bucking up.

He pulls Quentin’s face to his, and as he thrusts his tongue in his mouth, swallowing every sweet gasp out of Quentin’s mouth, he moves his hands down Quentin’s back, to his ass, pulling him right where he wants him, feeling the stiff line of Quentin’s dick against his own, hard and tight in his pants.

Quentin’s hands move down to the buttons on Eliot’s shirt, and it’s not long before he’s running his fingers down Eliot’s chest, carding through his chest hair, brushing against his nipples. Eliot feels like he’s on fire from within, he wants Quentin’s hands all over him with a need so strong it’s making him light-headed.

They’re thrusting and grinding against each other now; wherever they’re going, they’re going there fast. Eliot shoves his hands up Quentin’s back, under his shirt, and Quentin raises his arms, and then his shirt is on the floor.

Eliot’s eyes drop to the newly exposed skin—strong, tight shoulders, lean biceps, small dark nipples, a smattering of chest hair between his pecs that trails down to his tight stomach. Eliot rests one hand on the side of Quentin’s neck and squeezes very gently, lightly, and Quentin’s eyes flutter shut, his mouth drops open, and a soft moan escapes his lips. Eliot watches his face, entranced as he moves his hand down Quentin’s collarbone, then lower to brush through the soft hair over his breastbone.

Eliot leans forward, gently pressing his mouth to Quentin's chest. He kisses his way to graze one nipple, dragging his tongue over it, and then the other, hearing Quentin's sharp inhale. He pulls back a few inches to look up into Quentin’s face. His eyes are shut, bottom lip clamped between his teeth.

He looks completely enthralled. Even in the harsh light of the desk lamp, he's beautiful.

“The things I could do with that mouth,” Eliot whispers, and Quentin’s eyes fly open, burning into Eliot. “You know how hard it is to concentrate during class, having to listen to you, fucking look at you the entire time?” Quentin’s eyes go wide, his nostrils flare, and his gaze drops to Eliot’s lips. Then he’s sitting up on his knees, shoving Eliot’s thighs apart and palming his hard cock.

Eliot sucks in a harsh breath, his eyes close, and Quentin leans in until his mouth is right over Eliot’s ear and rasps, “I know _exactly_ how hard it is. Almost as hard as you are right now. ” He pulls Eliot’s earlobe into his mouth, nips at it, and asks, “Can I touch you?”

 _You already are_ , is on the tip of Eliot’s tongue, but he just nods, his hands moving to Quentin’s waist, massaging the skin there as Quentin works the button on his pants. “Lie down,” Quentin tells him, and Eliot has the distinct feeling he may have met his match in terms of bossiness in the bedroom.

And as he moves to lay out on the couch, fully shedding his shirt on the way, Eliot is surprised by how much he’s into it. Usually he’s the leader in the bedroom—setting the tone, directing traffic. He’s good at it; he likes being in control. But having Quentin’s eyes on him, his voice trailing over Eliot’s skin, putting him where he wants him, is something Eliot could get used to.

 _Get used to_ , he thinks, the thought sticking with him for a moment. _If this happens again_. He tries to shove it aside, but it’s lodged in his brain, unable to be scraped away.

The couch is, of course, just a bit too short for him, and he winds up with his head pillowed on an arm cushion and his feet barely hanging over the end. He smirks at Quentin as he settles down between Eliot and the back of the couch, half on top of him. Eliot bends one knee up, and one of Quentin’s legs falls between his own.

“You need a bigger couch.”

Quentin smiles as his hands move in a tut very familiar to Eliot. Eliot feels the magic cascade in his belly, down his groin and thighs, protection for whatever may come next. “Not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”

“Only compared to some,” Eliot says, and then his words die on his lips as Quentin’s hand reaches inside his pants and wraps around his cock.

Just from the way Quentin’s fingers encircle him, how he slides his grip up and down his length once, twice, tells Eliot that Quentin knows what he’s doing. When Quentin shoves Eliot’s underwear down his hips and pulls Eliot’s cock out into the dim light, Eliot keeps his eyes open, on Quentin’s face as he sees exactly what he’s working with.

There’s no delicate way to say it—Eliot’s cock is large. He’s hung. Packing heat. His trouser snake is an anaconda. Long and thick, he’s gotten more than one side-eye when it was unveiled, and it takes a… talented and enthusiastic person to go the distance with him. As he sees Quentin’s eyes widen, the way he licks his lips, Eliot thinks Quentin is more than up to the challenge.

“Fuck,” Quentin whispers. He doesn’t take his eyes off Eliot’s dick as he casts a spell that fills his hand with lube, with an ease that only Eliot himself could rival. Eliot’s cock is standing out and proud, and as Quentin glides his slick hand from tip and base and back again, Eliot’s body shudders and he lays his head back against the cushion. Quentin continues watching his hand glide up and down Eliot’s dick. “If I’d known this was what you were hiding in those tailored slacks, we never would have made it past that first class. I would’ve sent everyone else home and given you private tutoring.”

Eliot laughs, which turns into a groan under Quentin’s attention. “It freaks a lot of guys out,” he says breathlessly as Quentin caresses his balls, dragging his wet fingers all over them, and then back up to his cock. Eliot has one hand wrapped awkwardly around Quentin, and he drags his palm up and down Quentin’s bare back, trying to squeeze closer, which is ridiculous, Quentin is literally laying on top of him with one hand on his dick, the other trapped under Eliot’s shoulder. Not many ways they could get closer.

“It doesn’t freak me out,” Quentin says, turning to look at Eliot, his hand teasing at the head of Eliot’s cock, his thumb wiping over the slit, catching a small drop of precome and smoothing it all over. Quentin leans in for a kiss, pulling away just far enough to say, “Quite the opposite.” Then his hand starts to move in a more deliberate stroke as he capture’s Eliot’s mouth in a dirty kiss that leaves his toes curling.

Eliot has to pull his face away, he’s gasping, needs to breathe as Quentin is very quickly taking him to the brink faster than anyone has in a long time. Quentin continues fisting his dick, changing his grip and speed in response to Eliot’s reaction, reading him like a goddamned textbook. _Fuck_ , he’s good at this. Eliot can’t wait to get his hands on him, to make him feel as amazing as Eliot does right now.

Quentin shifts, his mouth right over Eliot’s ear. “You know why I try not to look at you in class? Because you’re so _fucking distracting_. I see the way you look at me. Like you want to fucking devour me. It drives me crazy. And your fucking cock… can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

When Eliot hooks up with a guy, he knows how to keep everything nice and casual while getting down to business. He’s an expert at staying just on the right side of the line between an offer and a promise. Both parties leave satisfied and very aware that they’d punched their only ticket on this ride. Usually. There have been a few confused boys that Eliot had to provide some tough love to, but it was a life lesson they had to learn.

As Quentin’s hot breath caresses his ear, as his teeth scrape down Eliot’s neck, as his words echo in Eliot's mind, Eliot can feel himself wavering on that line. He’s tip-toeing along it, it’s already so fucking thin, arms out for balance, knees bending, breath gasping to stay steady. How is this happening, one decent (ok _amazing_ ) hand job (that isn’t even _over_ yet, christ), and he’s thinking that there’s no way this can be a one-time thing. Quentin is sinking into his skin, he’s invading his blood; Eliot wants to reek of him for days, he wants to roll in his sweat.

“Show me how you like it,” Quentin whispers, and Eliot places his hand over Quentin’s, changing his speed and grip to what will finish him. “Show me how to make you come.”

“Fuck,” Eliot hisses as he jerks himself off, and Quentin’s removes his hand completely from Eliot’s cock, moving down to cup his balls, press against his perinium. He keeps his mouth busy too, laving and sucking all over Eliot’s neck in a way that will absolutely leave marks.

“I’m close,” Eliot says, clenching his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body a taut wire, and he feels Quentin squeeze Eliot’s leg between his own, grind down his own hard cock against Eliot’s thigh.

“Good.” He’s in Eliot’s ear, his voice strained. “Come for me.” Then he moves his fingers down, hardly able to reach with how his other arm is pinned under Eliot, and circles Eliot’s hole, just teasing at the rim. It sends Eliot over the edge, and he comes with a grunt, his entire body clamping down, waves of pleasure rolling through his body as he spurts all over his stomach and chest.

Quentin nuzzles and peppers his neck with kisses, much too tender for how wrecked Eliot feels. As Eliot comes back to himself, his legs shaking, come streaked on his chest, Quentin grinding against his thigh, he realizes he’s flung himself across his own line. So far past it. He can’t even fucking see it. The line is a dot to him.

And now he has to drag Quentin over with him.

He turns his head and kisses Quentin, using the arm he has wrapped around Quentin to haul him on top of his chest. It’s slick, Eliot’s come now all over Quentin’s torso, but he doesn’t seem to care as he kisses Eliot hungrily, grinding his cock into the hard line of Eliot’s hip.

A handjob isn’t going to do it. Eliot wants his mouth on Quentin, wants to ruin him, feel him fall apart against his tongue.

Quentin lets out a muffled, surprised yelp as Eliot pushes up, still kissing Quentin, manhandling him to sitting down on the couch. Eliot shoves his softening cock back in his pants and gets to his knees on the floor, pushing Quentin’s legs apart as he settles between them.

He glances up at Quentin’s face as he unfastens his pants. His eyes are hooded as he gazes down at Eliot, his hair wild, fingers digging into the fabric of the sofa. His chest moves with each heavy breath, and it’s glistening, because of Eliot, and something catches in Eliot’s throat at how wrecked Quentin is just from getting him off. Quentin covered in his come, willing and waiting, at Eliot’s leisure… he’s fucking beautiful.

Eliot gets Quentin’s pants open, but leaves them, instead sliding his hands down Quentin’s legs, all the way to his feet where he slides off his shoes and socks. Then shooting a grin at Quentin, he slides his hands up the legs of Quentin’s jeans, massaging and squeezing the bare skin of his calves.

Quentin thunks his head back against the couch—”I knew you’d be a fucking tease.”

That only makes Eliot’s grin grow wider, as he pulls his hands out and runs them up his thighs, squeezing before grasping the waist of Quentin’s pants. He stands up on his knees, eye level with Quentin, and leans forward, his mouth grazing Quentin’s ear.

“Professor,” he says, smiling at how Quentin’s body shivers in response, “I never tease.” Then he pulls down, Quentin lifting his hips to help Eliot pull his jeans off his body.

Quentin’s cock is hard, precome smeared over the tip, jutting out between his legs. It’s not as large as Eliot’s, but he’s a good size—thick and just long enough that Eliot knows he’ll need to relax to take it all the way in. He can already feel the hot skin sliding against his lips, bumping against the back of his throat. He can’t wait.

Eliot feels any remaining nervousness melt away—this, he knows. He casts the same protection tut that Quentin had earlier, and Quentin inhales sharply as the magic moves through him.

Eliot drags his hand over Quentin’s chest; his come is starting to dry but there’s still enough moisture for what he wants. Then he drags that same hand down his own chest, gathering what he can, and then strokes Quentin’s cock. Once, twice, watching as Quentin presses his head back into the couch, listens to the strangled noise that falls from his lips.

Eliot splays one hand right where Quentin’s neck and shoulder meet, his thumb rubbing over Quentin’s collarbone. His other hand grips Quentin’s cock at the base as he leans down and slides his mouth right over the head.

Quentin hisses as Eliot tastes him, tongue wrapping around his dick, feeling it grow harder in his mouth. Eliot pulls off, licking a stripe down the back of Quentin’s cock before taking him in a few inches deeper.

He’s never gone down on someone coated in his own come before. He’s tasted himself, for various… reasons, and that taste, mixed in with Quentin, is making him more than a little insane. Everything about Quentin—his smell, the way his cock twitches in Eliot’s mouth, his gasps and moans—makes him want more.

Eliot pulls out all the stops. And it’s not hard—no pun intended—to find what gets Quentin going. He’s so responsive, whispering encouragement ( _fuck yes, just like that, goddamn)_ , endearments Eliot’s never heard before ( _Your mouth is a fucking weapon_ ), moans and gasps as Eliot pulls him to the edge and back again. He can take Quentin all the way to the root, and he does, over and over, not caring if his throat is sore tomorrow. Eliot tongues over his balls while he jerks him off, as much as he can reach while Quentin is sitting, then moves back up to his cock, feeling the tremors in Quentin’s thighs, his whole body tensing beneath Eliot’s hands.

It’s amazing; Eliot has thought about this so much in the past weeks, and now he has Quentin in his hands, in his mouth, against his tongue. It’s so much _more_ than he thought it would be; he never thought he could be intoxicated by a person. Eliot has a long list of vices, and Quentin Coldwater is right at the top, bold and underlined.

At some point he realizes Quentin’s hands are still clutching at the sofa cushion, and Eliot picks one up, shoving it into his hair. Quentin immediately takes the cue to thread his fingers through the curls and lightly pull. Eliot can’t help his own moan around Quentin’s cock, his dick twitching again. Quentin’s other hand lands on Eliot’s shoulder, rubbing down his back, any naked skin that Quentin can reach.

It’s not long before Quentin’s gasps take on a definitive edge of urgency, the fingers in Eliot’s hair pulling tighter. “Eliot, I—”

And Eliot takes him down to the root again, the hand on Quentin’s shoulder clamping down, holding him in place as Quentin pulls on his hair, the pain stinging in a fucking delicious way, tears springing to Eliot’s eyes as Quentin comes in his mouth.

Eliot works him through it, swallowing it down, pulling off and coughing lightly when Quentin starts to soften in his mouth. He moves to sit on the couch next to Quentin, his legs still jelly, his cock half-hard again.

They sit side-by-side, catching their breath, Eliot wishing he had water nearby. But _fuck_.

That was… another level. Eliot’s had good sex, _amazing_ sex, and none of it is even in the same playing field, the same ballpark, the same fucking planet as what just happened. A handy in a dark office has completely blown his mind.

What the fuck?

A rustling next to him catches his attention and he looks over to see Quentin standing, pulling on his pants. He’s not looking at Eliot, and something stabs Eliot in the gut.

“Hey,” Eliot says, standing up, pulling up and fastening his pants. He grabs Quentin’s wrist, pulling him away from his search for his shirt. “You okay?” he asks.

Quentin still won’t meet his eyes, looking over at his desk, his bookshelf, the window. Eliot puts his fingers under Quentin’s chin, tilting his head up until he’s forced to meet Eliot’s gaze. Quentin’s eyes are storming—worry and something else that Eliot can’t recognize clouding them over.

Eliot grabs Quentin’s hand, slotting their fingers together. “That was amazing,” he says, internally rolling his eyes at himself. _Yes, so very smooth, Waugh._ Quentin’s gaze softens as he looks at Eliot, and then he suddenly pushes up, kissing Eliot hard. The kiss is chaste but intense, and when Quentin abruptly pulls back, Eliot nearly stumbles from the loss.

Quentin turns and grabs his shirt from the floor, spelling his chest clean before he pulls it on. “Yeah. It was. And it can’t happen again.” He grabs Eliot’s shirt and holds it out to him, not meeting his eyes.

Eliot’s eyes narrow as he takes it, shrugging into it, ignoring the dry, crusty mess on his chest. Whatever, he’ll shower later, bigger problems right now. Like trying to stop whatever he has here, which suddenly feels like the most important thing in the fucking world, from slipping through his fingers. “Quentin,” he says, haphazardly buttoning his shirt, “You’re giving me an impressive case of whiplash. I know this is—”

“A horrible idea,” Quentin finishes, running his hand through his hair. He picks up his glasses, slipping them on, facing Eliot. His face is hard, determined, none of the earlier softness visible anywhere. “I shouldn’t—” he sighs. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done this. But we got it out of our systems. Now we can—”

“We got it out of our systems?” Eliot's eyebrows are in his hairline. “Really? That’s all this was? You scratched an itch?” Eliot should get this. He scratches itches almost daily. But he can’t. It just doesn’t compute—blue screen of death, a spiderweb of cracks all over the glass case he’s kept his heart in for the past year.

Quentin turns away from Eliot, then back to him, a hand running through his hair again, nearly pulling at it. He’s not looking at Eliot again. “Sure. That’s it. That’s all we get.”

Eliot shakes his head, stepping closer, his gut twisting, heart rapid in his chest. He grasps Quentin’s chin this time, forcing him to look at Eliot. “That can’t be it. I know you don’t want that. Are you telling me you’re going to look at me in class and not think about what just happened?”

Quentin yanks his face out of Eliot’s hand, taking a step back, gaping at Eliot. “ _Of course_ I’m going to fucking think about. I’m going to turn myself _inside out_ thinking about it. But it doesn’t matter.” He swallows hard, and Eliot can feel it all, everything, floating away from him. He didn’t even know how much he wanted it until he had it, so fleeting, in his hands. “I told you that. Last night. We can’t.”

Eliot knows Quentin feels it. That connection, stark and vibrant, stinging between them, snapping at his wrist like that rubber band he used for a day when he tried to quit smoking and realized that was a reality he’d never live in. And while Eliot gets that they _should_ ignore it—he does—Quentin _invited_ him here. Eliot told him he wouldn’t bother him, he wouldn’t push, and then Quentin looked at him with those fucking bedroom eyes, _“Do you want to come with me to my office,”_ and _now_? After altering Eliot’s world view with a flick of his fingers, the curve of his mouth? After Eliot had just blown him within an inch of his life? Now he wants to just _forget it_? Fuck that.

Something inside Eliot pipes up, whispering, _That’s karma, bitch_. Whatever.

Eliot takes another step closer to Quentin, almost in his face, his voice low. “Well, we _did_. And you fucking loved every second of it. Your hands all over my cock, imagining what you can do with it. What I’d _let_ you do with it.” Quentin’s eyes flutter closed and he gasps out a sharp breath, and Eliot pushes in closer. “I know I loved sucking your cock. All those noises I pulled out of you—that’s all I’ll be thinking about. Tonight. Tomorrow. Monday in class. How Professor Coldwater came down my throat. And how much I want him to again.”

He’s hovering over Quentin, inches away, and Quentin’s eyes open, dark and heated, desperate, pleading, just like the night before. _I cannot lose this_ , he’d said. Eliot’s heart jumps to his throat, and just like that, the anger breaks. Desperation washes over him, who even is he right now, and he says, begs, “Quentin, don’t just… throw this away. We can make—”

“We can’t.” Quentin’s whispered plea floats between them, a barrier Eliot cannot cross, no matter how much he wants to. “You need to go.”

“Quentin—”

“Please go,” Quentin says, looking at Eliot, not seeing him. He’s focused somewhere else, on something only he can see. “Just go. Don’t make this anything more than it can be.”

Quentin turns, opening the door for Eliot, not looking at him.

Eliot stares at him for a moment, searching for what to say. He finds nothing. What else can he say? Quentin’s made it clear. And Eliot is already pathetic enough as it is.

He walks through the door, stopping in the hallway. He hears a soft click behind him.

Quentin’s shut the door on him. On them. Whatever this is. Whatever it could be.

~~~

Eliot stumbles home to the cottage, beelining through the crowd of drunken students, ignoring Margo, heading straight up the stairs to his room. He locks the door and flops down on his bed, kicking off his shoes.

His eyes are burning and he rubs his palms into them. This is ridiculous. He’d been rejected before. Rarely, and mostly back when he didn’t know an asshole from a tube sock, but it’s happened. It hurt.

But this—this is resonating. Reeling throughout every limb, he feels a loss that reminds him of when Mike died. _When I killed him._ Which is _ridiculous_. That was a real relationship, and this, this is… nothing. A passing fancy. A blip. An _itch_ to be scratched, apparently. How could a few kisses and groping in the dark possibly affect him this much?

He’s hardly gotten in a full five minutes of wallowing when his door bangs open. He knows who it is before opening his eyes; Margo is never one to be ignored, and a locked door is hardly a deterrent.

“Hey!” she says, hands on her hips, speaking in the tone she normally reserves for Todd. “What’s with the disappearing act?” Her expression immediately softens as she gets a good look at him, and she sinks down onto the bed next to him.

“Okay. What happened?” she asks warily.

“Oh, you know,” Eliot says, “Just complete and utter self-destruction. Nothing new.”

She looks him up and down; he can feel her eyes skittering across his skin like a colony of spiders. “You’re all marked up.” Eliot reaches up, pulling his shirt collar up a bit in a futile attempt to hide what he knows must be a ridiculous amount of hickeys. Margo’s nose wrinkles. “And is that…”

She reaches out towards his shirt, which Eliot realizes as he looks down is not buttoned correctly, and then recoils her hand back. “Baby,” she says, “Go take a shower. And then we’ll talk, okay?”

Eliot sighs, sitting up. He should talk, unload, whatever, but it’s the last thing he feels like doing. Showering and settling in with a bottle of wine sounds like a much better option. A joint or a potion from Josh. He should still have a few left. “No, I’m okay.”

Margo pins him down with her stare, her arms crossed in front of her. “Uh, no, you need to clean up. Stat.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “I will. I don’t need to talk. It’s nothing.” He stands up, moves to his dresser, Margo’s eyes on him the entire way.

“Bullshit,” she says. “It’s Coldwater, isn’t it? You fuck him?”

Eliot closes his eyes as his heart jumps just at the mention of his name. _Fuck_. How’s he going to look him in the eye in class? _Just like you do with any other guy. Tell yourself he doesn’t matter. Because he doesn’t_. Right.

Eliot grabs a pair of underwear and shuts his dresser drawer. “No. It’s nothing.”

She sighs behind him, and then he feels her hand on his arm, turning him. He faces her, finds her wide, worried eyes. He knows that look. He saw it daily the months after Mike died. “Go shower so I can hug you. I’ll be here.”

He nods and heads to the bathroom, and she’s right, he is disgusting. He hadn’t showered since the night before, and had basically laid around all day before getting high in the tower. He may have to burn his entire outfit.

He spends twenty minutes in the shower, just letting the water cascade down his face. He’d spent the last day on the Coldwater Rollercoaster of Emotion, inching up to one of the purest highs he could remember, before crashing down a drop so steep it had knocked him firmly on his ass. He should be happy to be off the ride. To be back on solid ground.

But all he could think about was how to get another ticket. Willing to wait as long as it would take.

The cottage is quiet when he returns to his room, where he finds Margo laying on his bed, scrolling through her phone, clad in the white cotton pajama set that Eliot always says makes her look like a model that's slummin’ it in the Sears catalog.

“You know I can see your nipples through that top,” he tells her as he tosses his dirty clothes on the floor. They're not worth saving.

“Bitch, are you complaining?” she says, arching an eyebrow.

He smiles, shaking his head. “What happened to the party?” he asks.

“I killed it,” she says, tossing her phone aside. “Now come here.” She pats the empty spot next on the bed next to her.

He lays down and she curls up next to him, her head propped up on one elbow. “Talk to me,” she says. But it’s really an order.

Eliot looks at her, those big brown eyes so open and full of concern. “Margo,” he says, “I’m fine. I’m… having a rough weekend.”

“Couldn’t be too rough if you come home covered in jizz.”

He clears his throat. “We all operate on different spectrums.”

“Eliot.” Her voice leaves no room for argument.

“Fine,” he says abruptly. It’s no use in fighting her, she’s a dog with a bone and she’ll push and push until she gets her way.

Plus… he knows he shouldn’t deal with this alone. He tried it last year. It didn’t go well. But.. “Just one minute.” He stands up from the bed, over to his dresser. He grabs the wooden box that holds his pot, papers, pipes, and pills (his treasure chest of personal party favors) and brings it over with him.

As they pass a pipe of his favorite blend from Josh, he tells her everything—well, almost everything. She wants details on exactly how much tongue Quentin uses ( _just the right amount_ ), the size of his nipples ( _we talking dimes, nickels... pepperoni?_ ), and she requests a to-scale drawing of Quentin’s cock (which he could do, but he’s not—it would come out much better when he’s sober). He tells her about the night in the Observatory Tower. Seeing Quentin at the bar. The kiss in the street. The conversation by the fountain. The office rendezvous. The revolving door of Quentin Coldwater’s emotional urges. She doesn’t listen quietly, but she listens.

“That good, huh?” she says after he’s recapped how he was tossed out on his ass.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Eliot closes his eyes and leans back against the pillow. He feels much more relaxed, and everything smells like peaches. It’s nice. “The Earth moved. Birds sang. The heavens opened up. It was all very…” he gestures with his hands, “dramatic and incredible and… upsetting.”

“Didn’t think he had it in him,” Margo says, shrugging. Her hand reaches up, lazily threads through his hair. “Look. I know you don’t want to hear it, but he’s right. Fucking him will only get both of you in trouble.”

Eliot opens his eyes to see Margo giving him a small, sad smile. He can tell she’s feeling the pot—she’s cuddled up beneath one of his arms, nuzzling against him like a cat. Soft and fuzzy, her sharp edges filed down. “But?” he asks, the corners of his mouth pulling up, like they always do when Margo looks at him like that.

Margo shrugs. “Sometimes you need a little bit of trouble in your life. I don’t know, El. He’s cute but damaged. A _professor_ , older than you, you get to break the rules _while_ sucking cock. Any relationship you have with him is doomed to fail before it even starts. Exactly your style.” Eliot frowns at her, and she shrugs her shoulders. “But he’s got more issues than both of us combined. And he’s drawn a line. I think you have to respect that.”

Eliot nods, sighing. “I know. And the fact that he is my professor… does make it just a little bit hotter.”

“A little bit?” Margo asks, smirking up at him.

“Okay, a _lot_ hotter. But… he feels different. I can’t explain it. It’s like… like he’s got my heart between his teeth.”

“Okay, that’s enough pot,” Margo says. “You are way too depressed if you’re saying shit like that.”

Eliot starts laughing, letting Margo lean over him to put his pipe over on the nightstand. “Are you going to drop the class?” Margo asks.

Eliot looks at her. Dropping the class never even occurred to him. And honestly, even with how the evening had ended… the thought of not seeing Quentin again makes something spiral inside of him. “No,” he says immediately. “I’m finishing the class. I’m going to fucking ace it.” He frowns, thinking about the next class on Monday. “But skipping the next couple is probably a good idea.”

She sighs and nods. “Well, you’re going to break your perfect attendance. Honestly that’s the least surprising thing about all of this. All it takes is a pretty face and a nice dick to get you to make the Dean’s List.”

“I’m on the Dean’s List?” Eliot asks, surprised.

“I don’t think we have a fucking Dean’s List,” she says, laughing. “And why the fuck does everything smell like coconut?”

Eliot joins her laughing, falling back against the bed, Margo leaning against him. Having her here with him, talking to her, makes him feel better. Soothes his troubled mind. Calms his rough waters. Quiets the chaos.

He can almost forget what happened just a few hours ago.

Almost.

~~~

Quentin cancels class the following Monday. Well, he doesn’t cancel it so much as he just doesn’t show up. Eliot almost goes on Wednesday, but chickens out at the last minute, spending two hours getting high in the cottage while he waits for Margo to come back. When she does, Eliot’s stares at her from the couch while she takes her time setting down her books and sashaying to the kitchen to grab a drink.

“Well?” he asks when she finally joins him on the couch, handing a bottle of water to him. “How was it?”

“Boring as fuck,” she responds, taking a large gulp. “ _Quentin_ looked like shit. I’m pretty sure he was high. Dark circles under his eyes. He lectured for like twenty minutes and let us go.” Eliot nods. He’s not happy that Quentin doesn’t look good… but he’s not sad about it either. “And then he asked me to stay after.” Margo gets up and heads for the stairs.

Eliot stares after her, and then he’s up, following. “Margo. Why? Why did he ask you to stay?”

Margo is on the stairs when she stops, turning to look back at Eliot. A few steps up, she’s just at his eye level. Smiling. Enjoying her power way too much. “Asked where you were. If you were sick or something. It was really cute, you could tell he was all nervous. Fidgeting, wouldn’t look me in the eye for shit.” Then she turns and walks up to her room.

“What did you say?” Eliot asks, following her into her room, shutting the door behind them.

“Oh, I told him you were nursing your broken heart over never getting to suck professor cock ever again.”

Eliot’s eyes widen. “Margo, tell me you’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking, dickwad.” Then she shrugs. “Sort of. I told him you were indisposed and you’d be back when you were ready. And that we should _all_ be so _fortunate_ to have someone as _amazing_ as you give _his class_ the time of day.”

Eliot sits down on the edge of her bed. Well. Could be worse. “And what did he say?”

“Nothing, really.” Margo sets her books on her dresser, grabbing a magazine and reclining back in bed. “Blushed, muttered ‘ok’ and then shuffled away.” She fixes him with a look. “That boy’s not okay, Eliot. You got under his skin just as much as he did yours.”

“He’s not under my skin,” Eliot says immediately.

Margo rolls her eyes. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

By Friday, he’s ready. Fueled by four days of wallowing and a few bong hits, he makes his way over to the TP building. He’s fully armored in one of his favorite outfits—a bespoke vest from a trip to London, pressed slacks, and a matching shirt. No tie, and he leaves the top few buttons undone. The marks Quentin left on him have mostly faded, but if anyone looks closely, there are a few still visible.

It’s juvenile, but he wants Quentin to see them.

As he approaches class, the heavy weight of the pocket watch jostles in his pocket. He’d taken to carrying it with him everywhere he went, which, these days, were his classes, the dining hall, and the cottage. He’s the only one that knows it’s there. And he knows that carrying it around doesn’t exactly signal that he’s ready to move on… but he doesn’t care. Despite everything, the memory of fixing that watch with Quentin brings a warm affection to his chest. It makes him feel good, and he needs that right now.

He’s nervous as he approaches the class. It feels like there’s kerosene in his veins, but he can do this. He has done this. So many times over. He puts up that wall, the mask that no one can penetrate. And he walks through the door and takes his seat, Margo taking hers right in front of him.

Quentin is already at the front of the room, fiddling with his laptop. He’s not paying attention to the students, and Eliot takes a moment to drink him in. He looks good—grey jeans that he’s sure are soft to the touch, and an untucked grey button down with a black cardigan over it. His clothes are wrinkled, but that’s nothing new. His glasses are perched on his face; his eyes scrunched up as he peers at the computer screen. He looks soft, like if Eliot gave him a hug, he would just sink into him.

It’s not until Camilla accidentally drops a book on the floor that Quentin looks up in his direction. Their eyes meet, and Eliot tries hard to keep his mask up, to not let his thought of _I’ve seen you naked_ show on his face.

He thinks he succeeds. But while he can stop his face from betraying his thoughts, he can’t stop his body from reacting to Quentin’s gaze. His stomach flipping in his belly. His pulse beats in his ears. The whispered words _can’t wait to get my mouth on you_ echoing through his mind.

Quentin, for his part, isn’t quite as composed as Eliot is. Eliot can see his breath catch, his eyes widen slightly as he swallows hard. _Fuck_ , and that string is still there between them. Snapping, pulling them together. For a second it’s only the two of them in the classroom. Even from this distance, Eliot can see the pain, and he thinks, regret, in Quentin’s eyes.

Margo clears her throat loudly in front of him, and Eliot looks away, to the floor. When he looks back in Quentin’s direction, he’s focused on his computer. Eliot swallows his disappointment—and his relief. That he’s not the only one suffering.

Throughout the class, Quentin makes an effort to not look at him. Eliot tries not to let the words Quentin whispered to him the other night float through his mind, but he can’t help it. _You’re so fucking distracting. I see the way you look at me._ Quentin mainly faces the other side of the classroom, and when he does look Eliot’s way, it’s always at the desk to the right of him, in front of him, behind him.

But more than once, Eliot is reading his textbook or writing notes, and he feels a tingle on the back of his neck. He looks up just in time to see Quentin glancing away.

It’s infuriating. How much _more_ Eliot is attracted to him. He should be done with him—Quentin has rejected him twice already, but as he watches Quentin demonstrate an intricate mending, he can’t help but think about those fingers wrapped around his cock. Those lips breathing in his ear, whispering how distracting Eliot is. Well, Quentin doesn’t seem very _distracted_ today, as the lamp he’s mending effortlessly reforms in front of him.

When Quentin turns his back to the class, Eliot’s eyes drop down to his ass, thinking about how it had felt in his palms. The body he hid under those baggy jeans and hoodies and sweaters—Eliot had no idea what had been waiting for him. His cock starts to harden as his thoughts drift back to that night a week ago, in an office just down the hall from the classroom.

Eliot sinks lower into his seat, dropping his eyes to his notebook. He takes his notes, tries to get his body to calm the fuck down, and by the time class is over, he’s out of his seat and through the door before Quentin has finished dismissing them, Margo hot on his heels.

“Well that was fun and interesting,” she says as they cross the grassy area back to the cottage. “Should’ve brought an axe to cut through all that tension between you two.” She jogs to keep pace with him as he strides across the lawn. “Slow down, some of us are a normal height.”

“Please,” Eliot says, his tone short as he slows down. “He hardly even looked at me.” Eliot’s jaw is tight, his knuckles clenched around his books.

Margo huffs. “You’re both ridiculous. Anytime you’re not looking at him, he’s looking at you. Your hard-on has been poking me in the back for the last hour.”

After that day, Eliot falls back into a routine very similar to earlier in the year—wake up, get high, go to class, get high, homework, drink and get high, sleep. When he attends Minor Mending, he slips into class just as it starts and attempts to pay attention. He always fails, lapsing into ridiculously detailed daydreams about his professor. In Eliot’s mind, Quentin dismisses the entire class and then blows him up against the door. Quentin fulfills a long-dead fantasy of Eliot’s where he throws rocks against his bedroom window at 3AM, Eliot levitates Quentin up to his room, where they proceed to fuck long into the early morning. They break into Sunderland’s office and make good use of the various toys Eliot knows she’s hoarding in there. Her ridiculously attractive psychic boyfriend finds them and joins in.

Sometimes he gets a little carried away. And the end result is almost always Eliot spending the last fifteen minutes of class talking his dick down so he can leave the classroom without an incident. More than once he just went to the bathroom mid-class to deal with it.

It’s embarrassing, but he just can’t help himself. Now that he has actual memories to turn over in his head, now he _knows_ how heated Quentin’s skin can get, how that blush spreads all over his entire body, it’s all he can think about anytime he’s near Quentin. He can hear the soft sighs spilling from Quentin’s lips as Eliot sucked his cock as far as he could take it. There’s still a lot he doesn’t know about Quentin (how that mouth would feel wrapped around _his_ cock, for instance). But he lives in a world of _facts_ instead of fantasies, and it’s slowly killing him.

At night, he sits around the cottage, experimenting with new cocktails, smoking whatever new mix Josh is selling, watching The Great British Baking Show on his laptop, and studying. Which, yes, one of those things is not like the others, but he meant it when he said he was going to ace Minor Mending.

He also thumbs through his dating apps, but he always winds up going back to his photos, staring at those same pictures he never deleted. Brown eyes, stunning smile. More often than not, he winds up with his pants around his ankles, stroking himself, coming with the thought of Quentin’s mouth on his, or his lips wrapped around Eliot’s cock.

He knows this isn’t healthy. How much he’s drinking, smoking, snorting. But it makes him forget. For a little while. That Quentin wants him, but not enough to do anything about it. That he’s pushing Eliot away because Eliot’s not worth it.

Eliot can hardly blame him. He wouldn’t risk his job, or anything really, for himself either.

He can feel Margo watching him closely, sometimes peering at him like she’s worried he’s going to fall apart, and sometimes glaring at him like she’s repressing the urge to smack him (more often than not she doesn’t repress it for long). After every class, she has some snarky comment about how they’re both idiots and this entire thing is ridiculous.

Eliot can see her point. Quentin looks rougher every time Eliot sees him—gone are the days of pressed slacks and coordinating vests and blazers. He hasn’t cancelled class again, but he’s frequently late, and he’s always in jeans and a hoodie. Eliot is pretty sure Quentin hasn’t taught class sober since their night together, but Eliot hasn’t attended sober in weeks, so who is he to judge?

Even with all his awkwardness and fumbling, Eliot thought of Quentin as one of the most enthusiastic teachers he’d had at Brakebills. Anyone that heard him speak could tell that Quentin loved magic. But now, his tone is dull. Lackadaisical. His eyes are shuttered and bloodshot. He’s going through the motions. He’s suffering. Just like Eliot is.

All he has to do is make it to the end of the semester, and then they won’t see each other three times a week. _Then,_ he’ll be able to move on. And that thought—moving on, not thinking about Quentin—has Eliot reaching for another drink. He doesn’t _want_ to stop thinking about him. He wants _more_.

He’s so fucked.

~~~

Margo lasts two weeks before taking things into her own hands.

Eliot is settling in for an exciting Friday night of getting high and watching Queer Eye on Netflix when he hears her yelling for him. As he comes down the stairs, Eliot sees her standing in front of the small piano that’s tucked right up against the staircase, with Todd by her side.

Margo is giving Todd a wicked grin, which is unusual on any day. Todd, understandably, appears to be sweating. He’s wringing his hands together, which is pretty typical of him when Margo is nearby. They glance up as they hear Eliot approach; Margo looks very pleased with herself, while Todd’s eyes are wide and nervous.

“Hey, what’s—” The question dies on his lips as he gets a good look at the piano, which is… sliced in half? It’s definitely in two pieces, each standing on it’s own supports. He’s never wondered what a piano looked like on the inside, but he can see that it’s not very exciting—copper wires, a wooden frame, the little hammers that hit the strings to make music.

“She made me!” Todd says, hands up in a form of surrender.

Eliot looks from Margo to Todd, and back to the piano. “She made you what?” Eliot asks slowly.

“The piano’s broken,” Margo says bluntly.

“Yes, I can see that. Although I don’t think ‘broken’ is really the most accurate description.” Eliot turns back to it, leaning closer. It’s literally been cut down the middle, just like a lot of the stuff Quentin has them work on in class. He turns back to Margo. “Why would you—”

“Someone’s coming to fix it. But I have an appointment. So I need you to deal with it.” She grabs Todd’s arm and all but drags him towards the door, picking up her purse off the couch along the way.

Eliot looks from the piano, to Margo, and entirely too slowly puts it all together. _Someone’s coming to fix it..._ “No no no no no,” he says, running forward and grabbing her arm. “You did not— _did not_ —”

Margo turns to him, while Todd escapes out the front door towards sweet freedom. “Look,” she says, her voice low, “This whole ‘depressive addict’ chic you’ve been working the past few months—it was cute at first, but now it’s just worrisome. You need to snap out of it, El. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but you need to just… fucking bang. Or talk. Or both. Whatever gets both of you to stop drinking and smoking everything in sight.”

Eliot frowns as his panic builds. “I’m not—”

“You _are_ ,” Margo says. “This place is empty for at least another hour; I made sure of it. I don’t give a shit if you fix the piano as long as you talk to him. Say what you need to say so you can move on.”

She turns to leave, and Eliot grabs her hand. “Margo, it’s not that easy. This isn’t something that can be fixed—”

He’s interrupted by someone clearing their throat. He and Margo look up, and there he is. Closing the cottage door behind him, shifting on his feet awkwardly. Quentin gives them a tight smile as he looks like he’d rather be anywhere be right here, right now. “Margo asked for help fixing the piano?”

“Quentin!” Margo smiles brightly as she walks over to him, placing a hand on his arm. Eliot is just staring at him, mouth open, wholly unprepared for Quentin here, in his space. It does not compute. “Yep, it’s right over there. El will show you.” And then she’s gone, out the door before either one of them can even blink.

Eliot is the first to recover, closing his mouth and straightening his shoulders. He’s fine. This is fine. “Um. It’s over here.” Eliot turns and walks the few feet over to the piano. Which, Quentin probably knows where the piano is. He lived here for years.

Quentin follows, his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting around the room. He looks skittish, his face pale, and Eliot immediately feels like shit. He wasn’t the only one Margo sprung this on. Even though Quentin had to know Eliot would be here. Since he lives here and all.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Eliot says abruptly. “I didn’t know that she called you here. Had I known, I would have stopped her.”

Quentin actually smiles, and immediately Eliot feels lighter, his heart slowing down it’s beat, his weasels in his brain freaking out just a little bit less. “Somehow I doubt anyone can stop Margo from doing anything she has her mind set to,” Quentin says, looking up at Eliot.

Eliot nods, looking over at the piano, the latest sacrifice to his lord and savior, King Margo. “It’s okay,” Quentin says quietly. “I didn’t really put up much of a fight when she asked me to help.”

Eliot turns to him, and finds Quentin gazing at him. Eliot’s heart does that stupid thing it always does when he’s around Quentin—speeds up, flips out, general chaos within his chest. Now that Quentin is closer than he has been in weeks, Eliot takes the chance to really look at him. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced against his pale face, and he has his hair pulled back in a bun—Eliot’s fingers itch to pull it down, run his fingers through the loose strands that fall around his face. And the way he’s looking at Eliot—heavy lids, sweet brown eyes full of sadness, is just too much for Eliot. This man _has_ gotten under his skin, and every second Eliot spends with him knowing that he can’t have him is a second too long.

Quentin takes a few steps towards him, and Eliot backs away. The pull he feels to Quentin is stark and rigid, undeniable. But Eliot can't be pulled back and forth like this. He’s spent too many years giving in to things that only hurt him in the long run. Margo was right; he’s heading down another dark path.

Quentin stops, swallows hard. He looks to the floor, to the piano, to Eliot’s shoes. “Eliot, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Eliot shakes his head, also looking at his shoes. He frowns at the scuff mark on the toe. He can’t look at those eyes and listen to the pain in that voice. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” The forcefulness in Quentin’s tone forces Eliot to look up, to meet Quentin’s eyes. They’re dull, shameful. Sad. “The way I acted after… I’m sorry. That night was… it _was_ amazing.” The way he says it rolls across Eliot’s back, makes his skin tingle. Quentin looks away, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s all I can think about,” he confesses. “But I told you, I’m… I’m not good for you. Or anyone.” He looks around the cottage, stepping further into the main room.

Eliot frowns. He’s not sure how to respond; he knows that feeling of worthlessness well. He wants to comfort Quentin, to tell him he’s wrong. Tell him to stop running away. But he’s not allowed to do that. He’s not allowed to do anything he wants with Quentin.

“Just being here,” Quentin says, “reminds me.” He’s stepped even further into the cottage, near the shelf of glassware, gazing at the bookshelves.

“Of what?” Eliot asks, following Quentin, stopping a foot or so behind him, unable to stop himself from getting just a little closer.

Quentin’s eyes are glassy, and he reaches a hand out, running his fingertips over the book spines. Eliot feels like Quentin’s not here with him; he’s back in a time long past. “I haven’t been here in… years. I always avoided it after… after Alice.”

“She was your girlfriend?”

Quentin glances over at Eliot. He’s looking at him that way again, like he’s searching for something. After a pause, he responds, “Yeah. She was.” Quentin moves over to the walls leading to the back part of the cottage, adorned with musical instruments. “It still looks the same. You know I put up that ‘TADA’ sign?” He points over towards the kitchen, where the iconic sign has hung as long as Eliot has been here.

“Julia and Kady found them at some flea market. We took down the paintings that were there, these really horrible watercolor paintings of horses.” Quentin is fully smiling now, and Eliot knows the exact paintings he’s talking about—they’re in the back bedroom on the second floor. “We magicked them to the wall. Alice put those paintings up in her room. She always loved horses.” He turns in a full circle, his eyes sweeping up and over every corner and crevice. Finally he lands back on Eliot, a real smile on his face. “It’s not as bad being here, as I thought it would be. I have a lot of great memories.” He looks down, his smile fading. Immediately Eliot wants to do something, anything to bring it back. “I’m sorry, I tend to ramble sometimes.”

“I like it,” Eliot says, a smile tugging at his lips. “When you ramble.”

Quentin looks at him for a long moment, and then clears his throat. “I didn’t hesitate, when Margo asked me to come.” He’s fidgeting, running his thumb over the fingernails of one hand. “I was hoping to see you.”

Eliot closes his eyes, inhales. How can one person spin him around, leave him dizzy with just a few words. He opens his eyes, focusing directly on Quentin, trying to ignore the hope spiking through his body. _We can’t._ They can’t. And he can’t keep going on like this.

“Okay, Quentin, first of all, the whole ‘I’m no good for anyone’ act—bullshit. I don’t believe it. I think it’s just an excuse for you to push people away.” Quentin’s lips thin out and he looks away. “Second of all, you can’t just… _say_ stuff like that to me. You can’t tell me you can’t, and then come here and say you _think about me_ and want to _see me_ and not expect me to... “ _Jump you on sight._ Eliot sighs, his fingers tapping against his thigh. “You said we can’t and I will respect that. But you can’t jerk me around. It’s not fair.”

Quentin meets his eyes, and Eliot sees that same pain, that thick, unyielding self-loathing that he sees in the mirror daily. They could help each other, he thinks. But they can’t. This is how it has to be.

Quentin nods, shoving his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. “Yeah. I—yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. I just wish we had better timing,” he all but whispers.

Eliot sighs. “Yeah, me too.”

Quentin runs a hand over his face and turns to the piano. “So what exactly happened here? It looks like someone just cut it straight down the middle. With Lucas’s Light Amplification.” He walks over to it and starts examining the two halves and where they’re separated, shoving the piano bench out of his way.

“That is probably exactly what happened,” Eliot says, sitting on the piano bench. He watches as Quentin looks over the innards, his head tilting and nose wrinkling as he mutters to himself.

He’s completely focused, running his fingers over the wood and metal, whispering calculations and circumstances. It’s not long before Eliot is squirming in his seat, trying to not look at how Quentin’s tongue keeps poking out between his lips as he works. It’s ridiculously hot, how he just _knows what he’s doing_ , and Eliot has to remind himself that literally minutes ago they were discussing _timing_ and _respecting wishes_ and Eliot’s cock is _not_ respecting his wishes right now.

Finally Quentin pulls back, glancing over at Eliot. “I can fix it. I’ll need your help, though.”

Eliot tilts his head, and Quentin motions for Eliot to slide back on the bench. He does, and Quentin sits on the other end, one leg on each side of the bench. Eliot mimics his pose, so they are facing each other, both straddling the bench.

“So,” Quentin says, and instantly Eliot sees him relax into teacher mode. His eyes get brighter, his face more expressive, his hands start to move as he speaks, his overall vibe just more self-assured. “It’s a modification on Polaski’s theory, just on a larger scale. There are a lot of individual parts within the piano, and casting cooperatively will get it going faster, and you’ll get a more... precise mend. If that makes sense.”

Eliot nods. “Less chance you’ll fuck up something inside along the way?”

Quentin nods, smiling. “Yeah!” Eliot can’t help but smile back; when Quentin is like this, into whatever he’s talking about, he’s infectious. It’s nice to see that light in Quentin’s eyes again—it’s been absent the past few weeks. It’s one of the things Eliot loves about Quentin’s class (besides the hot teacher)—Quentin genuinely loves magic and the possibility that comes along with it. Even without the bonus prize of getting to see Eliot, Margo is probably making his fucking week by asking him to fix the piano.

Eliot starts making a mental list of all the breakables in the cottage. He could slice the couch in half. Knock over the barware shelf and see how many glasses Quentin can fix in one go. The possibilities are endless.

Quentin walks him through the movements, reviews the circumstances, and even though Eliot couldn’t give two shits about them right now, he’ll nod and smile as long as Quentin keeps talking in that authoritative tone. “We’ll be going over this next month, so here’s your sneak preview. If you take Cooperative Casting, some of this will come up there as well.”

Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hands, to correct a movement, and hesitates. “Is it okay if I…?” Just like that, his confidence falters, and he’s back to the tentative man who walked through the door.

“Yeah, please,” Eliot says, sliding forward a few inches on the bench, extending his hands out.

Quentin nods and grasps Eliot’s hands within his own, and just like that, their entire conversation goes up in smoke, at least on Eliot’s end. Quentin is speaking as his fingers slide over Eliot’s, softly correcting him, and Eliot isn’t listening to a word he’s saying. He’s zeroed in on the charge that flows through his body with every touch, on suppressing the shudder that threatens to overtake him when Quentin’s fingers encircle Eliot’s wrists to perfect the arc in the third movement.

 _Fuck_. He’s going to jerk himself raw by the time this semester is over.

After a few dry runs, mainly needed because Eliot wasn’t paying attention the first time around, Eliot feels comfortable enough to attempt the casting, and he and Quentin sit up straight on the bench. On Quentin’s cue, they start moving their hands in the practiced movements, tutting and swirling in unison.

Instantly, Eliot feels his magic responding, rising up inside him, and as he closes his eyes and focuses on the piano, visualizing the fibers and keys weaving back together in his mind’s eye, he feels something warm and rich swirling around him, nudging against his magic, intertwining, pulsing in the air.

The warmth fills him, encompasses him, reaches out and touches his magic, the filaments of their spellwork binding together as the enchantment takes hold. It’s Quentin’s magic, becoming one with his own. He wasn’t expecting this; he’s done shorter cooperative spells at Brakebills before, like when Quentin had helped him mend his watch in the tower, and he’s well-versed in the shared pleasure of sex magic, but this… this is _new_. It’s thick and fine all at once, he can almost smell it, the scent of musk and linen and honey tickling his nose. It’s so evanescent he wants to reach out and grab it, pull it close, bury his face in it.

He continues with the movements, focusing on the piano, and not how his thighs are tightening, how his breath is speeding up, how beads of sweat are forming on his forehead. He presses against the feeling of completion swelling up inside him, focuses on the creaking of the piano next to him as it shifts and moves to rejoin to itself.

His entire body feels like a tinderbox, sparking, tingling, and he can hear, can _feel_ Quentin wrapping around him; his mouth against Eliot’s neck, hands splayed over his chest. Which doesn’t make sense, Quentin is still a few feet away from him, but his hot, sweaty skin is sliding over Eliot’s, that same musky scent that Eliot will forever associate with Quentin invading his nostrils; Eliot’s back is pressed against firm couch cushions, Quentin’s voice raspy in his ear, Eliot’s cock is hardening in his pants.

As the spell nears its finish, a surge of fulfillment crests within, Eliot’s hands move through the final movements, and he can hear Quentin a few feet away, breathing hard. Eliot realizes he’s practically panting and what _is this_? In his few experiences with cooperative magic, it’s _never_ been like this. Like the other person is all over you, inside you, _overloading_ you from within.

That same click he remembers from the Observatory Tower, when he and Quentin fixed his watch, rings inside him and his hands still before dropping to the bench in front of him. The cottage is eerily silent, the only sound his harsh breathing. And Quentin’s.

He opens his eyes to find Quentin already watching him, his lips parted, looking just as wrecked as Eliot feels.

He doesn’t know who moves first, but one second they’re staring at each other, the air crackling with magic and tension, and the next he’s kissing Quentin, fisting into his hoodie while Quentin claws at Eliot’s hair, grips the back of his neck, holds him so he can’t escape.

Escaping is the last thought in Eliot’s mind, he leans into Quentin, stumbling over the piano bench he’s still straddling. Quentin pulls him up, strong hands grabbing at Eliot’s hips, the only thought in Eliot’s head is getting closer to Quentin, thrusting his tongue in Quentin’s mouth as they stagger away from the bench, their lips still connected.

The piano is _definitely_ fixed, it’s new bindings already being tested as Quentin shoves Eliot back against it, the only sounds of protest being the stunted notes echoing in the cottage as Eliot sits on several keys. They ignore it, Eliot wrapping a leg around Quentin’s thigh as he pushes up against Eliot, grinds into him, the piano complaining with a chaotic melody with every movement. Eliot gasps into Quentin’s mouth as the delicious friction and heat of Quentin’s hard cock thrusts against his own.

Dimly Eliot realizes they lasted a whole five minutes before attempting to dry-hump each other into oblivion, and he should probably stop this.

He really, _really_ should.

He settles for pulling his mouth away from Quentin’s, and as Quentin licks and nips at his jaw, his hands untucking Eliot’s shirt, Eliot gasps out, “Quentin. What was that?”

Quentin stills, his hands hot on Eliot’s back, under his shirt. Eliot has one hand wrapped around Quentin’s waist, the other on the back of Quentin’s neck, his thumb rubbing against Quentin’s scalp. Quentin pulls away, leaning back to look into Eliot’s eyes, then his gaze dropping to Eliot’s lips. He pushes up for another kiss, one Eliot is more than willing to give.

He pulls away again, leaning his head against Eliot’s shoulder, his breath heavy against Eliot’s neck. Eliot’s dick is aching in the confines of his pants, hard and ready.

“I don't know. Cooperative magic can be intense, depending on your… compatibility. I’ve never… never had anything like that. Eliot…” Quentin pulls back again, looking up to Eliot. Quentin’s eyes are dark, wide, so full of longing that Eliot stops breathing. “I know we just said… but I—I can't stay away from you. I think about you. All the time.”

Eliot leans down, his heart soaring in his chest, and kisses Quentin again, hard. He pulls back, “I do, too.” He rests his forehead against Quentin’s, their breath mingling. He’s never felt a pull this intense, a need so immediate, so carnal, than what he’s feeling right this second. He can’t imagine living without it, and at the same time, he feels like he’ll overdose, just explode into stardust from too much Quentin Coldwater.

Quentin’s hands are still on his back, nails digging into his skin. It stings, feels good, and Eliot pulls him in tighter, curls his fingers in Quentin’s hair, those damn piano keys he’s still sitting on punching out a disjointed refrain. They should move, go somewhere that someone can’t walk in at any moment.

“I haven't…” Quentin starts. “This isn't…”

“I know,” Eliot says. This _thing_ between them is real, alive. Eliot wants to bathe in it, dump it all over his body and just let it soak in.

But that’s not really an option. They’re still the same people they were ten minutes ago, a teacher and a student, desperate for each other but unable to be together. The only thing that may have changed is what they’re willing to give each other.

Eliot leans down and kisses Quentin again, swallowing his small moan. He’s desperate to ask Quentin what’s going through his mind. If he’s just trying again to get Eliot out of his system. Eliot pulls away, a few inches, and asks—“Do you want to go up to my room?”

“Yes,” Quentin says immediately, connecting their lips again. Before Eliot can make a move, he pulls back, “but I can’t.”

 _We can’t_. There it is again. Eliot tenses, and immediately Quentin’s hands are rubbing up and down his back. “Eliot, I don’t know what this is, but… you’re not an itch. To scratch. I’m sorry I said that.”

“I think I’m the one that said that,” Eliot sighs, tucking Quentin’s head under his chin. Eliot’s breath is starting to even out, adrenaline decreasing, leaving confusion, uncertainty in its place.

Quentin turns his head, pressing a soft kiss into Eliot’s collarbone, and then he inhales long and deep. “We shouldn’t be doing this here. I’m not sure where, but… I need to think.” He pulls away, glancing briefly up at Eliot.

Eliot nods, swallowing. Quentin steps out of his arms and he stands up, turning back to look at the piano.

It looks perfect, although a few smudges on the keys from their… activities. It’s fully formed, all in one piece, and could almost be mistaken for brand new, from the shine in the wood.

He turns back to Quentin, finding his eyes already on him. Quentin steps forward, grabbing Eliot’s hand, slotting their fingers together. Eliot leans down as Quentin tilts his face up, their lips meeting. When they separate, Eliot asks, “Can I see you again?”

Quentin squeezes his hand. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “Just… I just need to figure some stuff out. And I… Eliot, I—I can’t promise you anything.”

Eliot nods, looking towards the window as shadows play across the glass, voices loud outside the cottage. “You should go,” he whispers.

Quentin nods, taking a step back, dropping Eliot’s hand. “I’ll go out the back.” He and Eliot stare at each other another moment, and then Quentin turns, leaving through the kitchen.

Eliot takes one last look at the piano, perfect and pristine and heads up to his room. Quentin’s last words ring through his mind— _I can’t promise you anything._

Normally Eliot wouldn’t want anything. He’d be backing away, hands up, _keep it all to yourself, no need for any of that here._

He reaches down and runs his fingers over a few of the keys—cold and smooth against his fingertips. When he presses them down, each one rings out a perfectly tuned note.

 _I’ll take anything I can get_.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 6: Section 4.3 - A Description of the Terror of Giving in to your Own Desires


	6. Section 4.3 - A Description of the Terror of Giving in to your Own Desires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “So Many Teacher Puns” tag is in full effect for this chapter.
> 
> Many thanks to [Ambiguous Penny](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/ambiguouspenny) for their artistic contributions to this chapter.

_Quentin_

“That’s it for today. Good work, everyone.” Quentin walks behind his desk, unplugging his laptop as students file out. He’s putting it in his bag when he glances up to see Eliot and Margo exchanging a look by the doorway. Margo catches his eye, and he quickly averts his gaze. If anyone could create a spell where looks could legitimately kill, it would be Margo.

When he glances back at the door, Margo is gone, and Eliot is approaching his desk. Quentin’s pulse accelerates; this will be the first time they’ve talked since this past Friday. When he’d gone to the cottage to fix the piano, and nearly fucked Eliot right on top of it.

Quentin has a lot of memories in the cottage, a few with that very same piano—his third year they’d played a karaoke/drinking game that involved enchanting the piano to play a song selected by the caster. Quentin can’t remember all the rules—he doesn’t remember much about that night at all—but he does have a very clear memory of belting out _22_ while everyone cheered him on. Everyone except for Kady, who rolled her eyes and smiled at Julia and Alice as they sang along way too enthusiastically. That song really does not work on a piano, not that he gave a shit at the time.

But now every time he looks at a piano, he’s not going to think of music—he’s going to think of Eliot’s hands in his hair, of the wet heat of Eliot’s mouth, of the waves of arousal that racked his body as Eliot’s magic merged with his own. Not even the few sex spells he and Alice had tried together had come close to what he experienced on Friday—the desperate urgency to touch Eliot, kiss him, to crawl inside his fucking skin.

And as Eliot meets his eyes, a tentative smile on his lips, Quentin is thankful for the catalyst that threw them together. Even if he’s 90% sure it’s all going to end horribly. 95%.

“Hey,” Quentin says, his eyes darting between Eliot and the open door to the classroom. They’re alone right now, but anyone could come in. The urge to walk around the desk and stand next to Eliot, slide their palms together, is so strong Quentin’s already taken a half-step when he stops himself. Julia should be coming in at any moment; they’re having lunch together. Better to keep the desk between them. Hopefully he can stop himself from lunging over it and mauling Eliot on the floor.

He takes a small step back, just in case.

“Hey,” Eliot says back, putting his books down on Quentin’s desk, tapping his fingers over the cover. He’s nervous, Quentin realizes—which makes Quentin feel better. He’s had a ball of anxiety been forming in his stomach ever since Eliot had walked through the door that morning.

Quentin had spent the weekend in his room, _thinking_. He had also spent it getting high and ignoring all of his paperwork and Julia’s calls, but mainly thinking. Going back and forth on the pros and cons of moving forward with this… _thing_ between him and Eliot. He’d tried staying away, and that had been a miserable two weeks that ended in Quentin pinning him to the closest nearby surface. But actually _being_ with Eliot, seeing what this was and where it could go, if it _could_ go anywhere, was more terrifying than pushing him away.

He knew what loneliness was like. He’d dealt with it for years. He _deserved_ to deal with it for the rest of his life, however short or long that may be. The last time he had any hope for his future, the last time he dreamed of a life of waking up to the same smile every day, making a cup of coffee for someone who had seen his ugliest parts and trusted him to hold onto theirs, that dream had died. It had died screaming, destroyed by his own hands. And that had only been the beginning.

With Eliot—he’d had just a small taste, and already he can’t live without it. What _if_ this becomes more? What would he do when he inevitably fucks it all up?

Sunday was a bit of a haze to him—Penny had come in at one point to tell him to “open a motherfucking window” if he was going to smoke this much weed. And again to yell at him to “answer his goddamn phone” so Julia would stop bothering him. Somewhere between all of that, he’d made an actual list.

  


Pros:

  * Amazing sex
  * Eliot’s dick
  * The way his smile lights up the room
  * Forming an actual intimate relationship for the first time in five years
  * Eliot’s legs
  * Incredible sex
  * Being able to ‘Netflix & chill’ instead of just ‘Netflix’
  * ~~Eliot’s dick~~ Eliot’s dick
  * Eliot’s ass
  * Having someone to try out the spells in that sex magic book you stole from the library in second year
  * Life-altering sex
  * Eliot’s hands
  * Eliot’s dick. Like holy shit.



Cons:

  * Corrupting a student
    * Argument: Eliot cannot be corrupted anymore than he already is
  * Dealing with seeing said student on campus after it all inevitably crashes and burns
  * ~~He dies like the last person you l~~
  * Disappointing the few friends you have
  * Losing the little respect you’ve actually built up at Brakebills
  * Getting fired
    * Having nowhere to live
    * Dying alone on the sidewalk



He didn’t come to any final conclusion, but he had masturbated a disturbing amount when coming up with his ‘pro’ list. It didn’t matter anyway; as soon as Eliot had walked into class this morning and locked eyes with Quentin, all of the cons had flown out the window.

“You sure Margo’s okay leaving you alone with me?” Quentin jokes, looking warily at the door she had just disappeared through.

Eliot shrugs and smiles at Quentin. “It worked out pretty well last time,” he says, giving Quentin a look that does not help his resolve to stay on his side of the desk. “Besides, Bambi’s a kitten.”

“She’s legitimately terrifying.” Quentin could still remember the look on her eyes when he’d kept Margo after class that day Eliot was absent to ask how he was doing. She’d nearly turned him to stone as she icily informed him that Eliot was _amazing_ and Quentin was lucky that Eliot even _considered_ taking a class like Minor Mending, his talents were so _advanced_ for what _this class_ had to _offer_. Quentin had mumbled a response and she’d given him one last steely glare before turning on her heels and leaving. Quentin had spent the next few days in a panic that she would turn him in to Fogg, but so far, he was still employed. And when she’d asked him—told him, really, to fix the piano, he’d relaxed. For now, at least. He has no doubt she would not hesitate to thoroughly destroy him if he hurts Eliot.

Which should probably be added to the con list.

Eliot’s smile chases away thoughts of Margo from Quentin’s mind, and they lean towards each other, helpless against the magnetic pull between them. Quentin keeps one eye on the door, and the other on Eliot.

He’s beautiful today. Not that he isn’t always, but right now, beaming at Quentin, he’s practically glowing. He’s wearing a mint button-down, the top few buttons undone because god forbid Quentin go a day without getting a good look at his collarbones, black slacks, and a black blazer. His eyes look greener than they usually do, and the way they slide over Quentin makes his breath hitch.

It’s a change from the past two weeks, during which he never smiled and avoided looking Quentin in the eye, and left class as soon as they were dismissed. Quentin would watch him walk out the door after every lecture, and grapple with the urge to run after him, to beg forgiveness for shutting the door in his face after he gave Quentin the best blowjob of his life. All the while damning himself for giving in, for allowing himself a taste.

He should’ve known that would never be enough.

Now he’s here, a foot away from the man he’s been obsessing over for weeks. He’s thought about this moment all weekend, hyperventilated over it, and just as he predicted, he’s turned into an awkward, blushing first-year.

“So, um,” Quentin says, glancing down at Eliot’s hand, resting on his textbook. He’s not going to think about that hand reaching up and plucking his glasses off his face, reeling him in for a kiss. “How was class?” _Yes, great opener Quentin, five fucking stars_.

“I dunno,” Eliot says, looking at Quentin like he knows exactly what Quentin is thinking. He probably does; subtlety has never been Quentin’s strength. “Wasn’t really paying attention. Too distracted by the hot professor.”

Now Quentin _is_ blushing. He looks away, unable to stop his ridiculous grin from growing wider, and shakes his head. “You’re going to get me in so much trouble.”

“That’s the plan.” Eliot’s eyes are bright and playful, smiling like he has a secret. Which, he does. Well, they do. Whatever. Eliot clears his throat—“So, have you—”

Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin sees a familiar form approach the door, and he stands straight up, the smile dropping off his face as he reaches up and adjusts his glasses. “Hey, Julia,” he says carefully, shifting away from Eliot.

She’s looking at her phone as she walks in, and she snaps up at Quentin’s greeting, smiling and putting it in her purse. “Hey, Q,” she says, hugging him. She pulls away, and smiles at Eliot, who’s picked up his books from the desk. “Hi,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Julia.”

Eliot shakes it, giving her what Quentin thinks is his most dazzling smile, and Quentin has to remind himself to not openly gape in adoration. “Julia and I were in the same class when we were students; we’ve known each other since we were kids,” he tells Eliot. “We’re gonna grab lunch.”

Eliot nods. “Eliot Waugh. I think I’ve heard of you,” he tells Julia. “You’re the same Julia who made the library disappear during Capture the Flag.”

Julia’s smile immediately gets bigger and Quentin resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s managed to go a good six months without hearing Julia tell this story, and Eliot had to go ruin the streak. As he watches Eliot nervously pass his textbook between his hands, Quentin decides he can forgive him.

“I am!” She’s practically preening, looking between Quentin and Eliot. “Not even the Illusionists could break through. We swept all the other houses that year. Captured the PK flag right under Quentin and Kady’s noses.” She smiles broadly at Quentin, and he does roll his eyes this time.

“Yeah, and it’s the _only_ year you guys won. Making your base disappear isn’t exactly within the rules.” Quentin picks up his bag and they make their way to the classroom door.

“And moving your base all around the campus _is_? You want to get into an in-depth analysis of who broke what rules during our time at Brakebills?”

“Not really,” Quentin says under his breath. He hadn’t broken _that_ many rules as a student. As a teacher… he casts a sideways look at Eliot, who meets his eyes briefly before looking back to Julia.

Quentin locks up his class, and turns to Eliot. “So I know you had more questions, but if you wanna come by my office tomorrow morning, I can probably help then?” he tells him, going for the casual, subtle subtext, but feeling like a completely obvious idiot _oh my god Julia is going to figure it out I suck at undercover this is why I could never be a spy_.

Eliot, being much more suave than Quentin could ever hope to be, catches on immediately, shifting to Quentin and smiling in a way Quentin is sure is supposed to be polite but does nothing to douse his urge to nibble on Eliot's jaw. “Absolutely, Professor Coldwater. I’ll... hold my questions until then.” Quentin fights to keep his expression blank, and he has to look away from Eliot’s knowing face before he starts smiling again.

Eliot turns to Julia—”It was lovely to meet you, Julia. Always a pleasure to encounter a campus legend.” He glances again at Quentin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, _Professor_.” He turns and saunters away.

Quentin watches him for a moment, the slight emphasis on _‘Professor’_ echoing in his head, before turning to Julia. “Ready for lunch?” he asks, working hard to keep his voice level.

“Sure,” she replies. “He’s nice. Good student?” she asks Quentin as they head towards the stairs.

“Yep,” Quentin says quickly. “Wanna eat here or at the cafe?”

“Let’s go to the cafe; I’ve been in the library for three hours, and I’m so ready to get off campus.”

Quentin nods and follows Julia out of the building, listening as she chats about her latest research project. She’s been a bit of a free agent since graduation, becoming a liaison of sorts between the NYC hedge witch network and the classically trained magicians at Brakebills. With Kady leading one of the city’s largest covens, and Julia’s close connection to her and certain members of the Brakebills faculty, it was a natural role for her to fall into. And that was before considering her reputation for being the smartest magician on the east coast, well-known for her ingenuity around several obscure areas of magic—mystical wards, ancient bonds, niffins… When she’s not meeting one group or the other, her head is almost always in a book while she researches some new breakthrough. Her technology wards, now part of the curriculum for every first-year, were the only reason anyone was able to use their phones and laptops on the Brakebills campus.

The portal in the faculty dorms gets them within walking distance of their favorite cafe in Brooklyn. As they cross the grass, he spots Eliot standing in front of the Phosphoromancy Lab, talking animatedly and smiling with Margo.

Seeing Eliot in front of that building, where Quentin would sit outside reading on the front steps as he waited for Alice to finish her work, sends him careening for a moment. Guilt and shame wash over him—they hardly know each other, but he already feels a connection with Eliot so strong it’s overwhelming. It’s been five years without Alice, but he’s supposed to spend the rest of his life grieving her. He’s _not_ supposed to find anything, _anyone_ that makes him forget all the bad shit in his life.

“Q?” He turns to find Julia raising an eyebrow at him, a few steps ahead. He’d stopped walking and was openly staring at Eliot. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, risking one more glance at the lab. Eliot hadn’t appeared to notice him; he was still talking to Margo, although their expressions had grown more serious. “Sorry,” he tells Julia, catching up to her. “What were you saying?”

~~~

They make it to the entree before Julia starts to prod.

“Took you long enough to text me back,” she says, fork poised over her salad. “I watched you teach for a few minutes, through the door. It's nice to see you smiling.” It’s a gorgeous fall day, and they’re taking advantage of it by sitting outside on the patio.

Quentin resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows it comes from a place of kindness and concern, he does, but it’s still damn annoying that everyone throws a ticker tape parade every time he smiles. He’s going to just like, stop doing it. RBF all day, every day.

“I've been busy. Classes and stuff.” Hopefully if he ignores the second part of her comment, she’ll forget about it. Totally likely.

“Penny said you didn’t show up for some of your classes the past few weeks,” she says, glancing up at him.

Quentin’s jaw clenches, and he sighs. “Penny talks too much.” He wishes he hadn’t ordered a burger, that he’d gotten a dish he could eat with a fork so he would have an excuse to stab something right now.

“Penny worries. We all do.” Julia sets her fork down, looking at him in earnest. Her eyes look the same way they always do when she talks about this—wide and full of concern. “You've done so well at Brakebills, Q.”

Quentin snorts. “Against all odds, right?” He looks across the street, focusing on the display in the book shop window across the street. Brian’s Books, where they had crazy stacks of volumes taller than Quentin all over the store. He always had a mini anxiety attack about going in; they had an incredible selection but Quentin had to hold his breath as he maneuvered through the stupidly huge piles of books. Perhaps they were spelled so they wouldn’t topple over, but Quentin had no desire to test that theory.

“No,” Julia says firmly. She reaches across the table and grabs his hand, and he turns back to her. “I always knew that no matter what you decided to do, you'd be amazing at it. If your heart was in it. And I…” She looks away, and for a second, Quentin is terrified she’s about to start crying. “I didn’t know if your heart would ever be in anything ever again.” She gives him a small, sad smile. “I know this time of year is hard. It’s hard for all of us. We lost our friend, and you lost…”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, squeezing her hand, suddenly having to blink the sting away from his eyes. Fuck, this got real heavy real fast. He loves Julia for her never-ending belief in him, even though it’s fruitless. This is just who he is; and eventually she’ll realize it. And leave.

“I know, Jules. And I’m… I know that you worry. And I had a few bad days. But I’m okay.”

Julia nods, clearing her throat. “Just call me. Or someone. When you have bad days. Don’t just lock yourself in your room and get high or—or pick up some stranger at a bar.”

“Don’t slut shame,” Quentin says, smiling softly. Even if she is talking with that holier-than-thou tone of voice again, he loves her.

She rolls her eyes at him. “I’m just saying. I wish you’d meet someone you wanted to settle down with. I just want to see you happy, Q. Your current… lifestyle doesn’t seem to be doing it.”

Eliot immediately flashes into his mind, smiling at him from across his desk. Quentin can’t stop the grin from forming on his face; he already can’t wait until tomorrow morning. Even if he hasn’t quite figured out what he’s going to say.

“There’s that smile again,” Julia says, and he focuses back on her to see her looking at him speculatively. “ _Have_ you met someone?”

Quentin’s eyes immediately widen and he knows that he’s blushing. He looks down at his food, picking up and focusing on his burger. He almost winces as he hears Julia’s fork clatter to her plate.

“Oh my _god_ , you _did_. Tell me everything. Right now.” He hesitantly looks up to find her leaning forward, arms on the table, eyes that are now very excited shining at him.

“I—um, I haven’t—I wouldn't say I’ve… it’s.. Fuck. It’s new.” She’s smiling so wide with so many _teeth_. _Fuck_. She’s so _happy_. If she only _knew…_

Her mouth drops, like she didn’t expect him to actually admit it, and she falls back in her chair, only to immediately lean forward again. “Quentin! Tell me about him! Or her! Or them! Where did you meet? What’s their name?” If Julia had a tail, right now it would be wagging so hard the entire table would be shaking.

Quentin returns his burger to his plate and leans back in his chair. _Well shit_. “I don’t—I don’t want to talk much about it. Like, I said, it’s… _very_ new.” Her eyes are so eager, and she’s looking at him with so much fucking pride; guilt grips his heart. She has no idea. He blurts out, “And I don’t even think it’s going to go anywhere. I met him at a bar.” Hopefully that’s specific enough to satisfy her. Which it’s kind of true, he and Eliot _had_ met at a bar. They had just met _first_ in his class.

Julia rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling so wide it takes all the heat out of it. “Of course you did. Why don’t you think it’s going to go anywhere?”

Quentin shrugs his shoulders and picks up his burger again, maybe he’ll actually take a bite out of it this time. He searches for a reason in his head that would make sense and isn’t _‘Well, he’s a student and it could get me fired but he gives head like he’s dying of thirst in the desert so I figure it’s worth it.’_ “He’s a little younger than me.”

_Yes, amazing Quentin, she’s only the smartest fucking magician in the entire goddamn city; she’ll never figure out that you’ve got a hard-on for a student._

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Like how much younger?”

“Seven years,” he answers immediately, the image of Eliot on a busy sidewalk, smiling sadly at him, bubbling up in his brain. Then he takes a bite of his burger, even though his appetite has vanished. Maybe it’ll mask how hard he’s freaking the fuck out.

 _What the fuck is wrong with you_? That’s only the _exact age_ of most of his students. More evidence of why he would suck at going undercover. If Julia pushes, he can always say he’s dating a hedge. He doesn’t want to flat-out lie to her, but telling the truth is not an option.

“Q,” Julia says, with utmost sincerity, “That’s _nothing_. My dad is ten years older than my mom.” She’s nearly bouncing in her seat now, the idea of Quentin possibly developing an _emotional connection_ with someone the best news she’s heard all year, apparently. Well isn’t that just _dandy_. “Age is just a number! And I keep telling you, you’re a legit snack. Worth way more than just some random hook-up.”

Relief flows through him as he attempts to return her smile. “Don’t get too excited. I’m sure I’ll find a way to fuck it up.”

Her mouth thins out. “Well yeah, with that attitude.” She sighs again, way more dramatically than appropriate. “Quentin, just take it one day at a time. You deserve to be happy. So much. And if this guy can make you smile like that, well… don’t let something stupid like a few years get in the way.” She looks at him, so hopeful, still smiling.

“Yeah,” he says, looking away, feeling like complete shit. She wouldn’t be nearly as happy or thrilled for him if she knew she’d met the guy in question hardly a half-hour ago. “Yeah. Thanks, Jules.”

Before she can ask another question or explode in glitter from happiness, he asks, “You saw the latest season of the Good Place is up on Netflix?”

Her eyes light up anew, like they always do when Eleanor Shellstrop comes up. He suspects she's letting him off easy, and she'll bring it up again. Soon. Like, tomorrow.

As they discuss the concept of after-life soulmates (Julia: _If you ask me, Eleanor and Tahani make way more sense, they should’ve kept that constant in their timelines_ ), Quentin turns Julia’s words over in his mind.

_You deserve to be happy._

Julia is the smartest person Quentin will ever know, but sometimes even she gets it wrong.

~~~

Quentin is at his office by eight the next morning, by far the earliest he’s ever been in his office. Like, ever. He’s been up since five, when he’d woken up sweaty and nauseated. His dreams haven’t abated—if anything they’re battering him harder than ever. Since that night in his office with Eliot, his subconscious has come up with new, clever ways to torment him. He still has the typical nightmares full of memories of Alice, but his dreams of Eliot have taken on a more vivid color now that he has actual experience to work with. These electrify him in an entirely different way—sweaty clenches with Eliot wrapped around him as he fucks Quentin, so hard and so fast Quentin is sure he can feel Eliot’s fingers pressing hard enough to bruises.

There were no sexy dreams last night, though, only pure, horrible nightmares—only instead of ice blonde hair with a sinister smile, he saw dark curls, white lightning skittering upon them, framing eyes that should be hazel, not shockingly blue. He’d laid awake in bed for hours after, staring at the ceiling, trying to forget the carnage his mind dreamed up.

He has no idea what time Eliot will actually show up. If he does—there's always the possibility he changes his mind. Half of Quentin hopes he will, that he'll be the adult in the room and prevent their inevitable tragic conclusion. But the other half jumps at every sound from the hall, looks up to see if someone is pushing the door open. Not even the pot he smokes is enough to take the edge off.

While he waits, he tries to do his job. He checks his email and sees one from Fogg, wanting a meeting. Fantastic. He attempts to grade papers; he has to read each essay at least twice since his mind keeps wandering. He leans back in his chair and spins slowly, until the tall, skinny cabinet that sits in the corner of his office comes into view. It has a few knickknacks—a tiny TARDIS that is, sadly, not bigger on the inside (it doesn’t even open), a replica of the Normandy from Mass Effect, and a snow globe with Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings. The middle shelf though, has a small collection of pictures. He rolls forward until he’s close enough to pick one up.

One picture is just him and Julia, a selfie she took at their favorite cafe on a bright, sunny day, and another is of Julia and Kady on their last anniversary, a celebratory brownie in front of them. One is of his dad, taken the year before he died of cancer. The rest are older; one of the group of Physical Kids from his second year, and one of him, Alice, Julia, and Kady. Also from their second year, taken after they’d all settled down into their romantic pairings.

The last one is just him and Alice. He picks it up, the silver frame, cold and heavy in his hands. It’s from their first year, when Julia was trying to not-so-subtly make things happen between them. Before the trials, when things got weird (having your insane alcoholic teacher turn you into fox and then fucking your crush (who is also a fox) will make things _at least_ a little weird). They’re sitting on the couch at the cottage, a book open in Quentin’s lap, Alice leaning into his side, reading over his arm. She's focused on the book, her lips pressed together, her finger tracing over the words she was reading. Quentin is looking at her; his eyes soft as he stares at her profile, the corners of his mouth pulling up.

Julia had given him this picture after they’d had finally gotten together at the start of their second year. After too many months of fumbling around each other, she’d finally just taken his hand and walked him upstairs to her room. If he’d known how things were going to end…

He sighs and sets the photo down. It doesn’t matter. Things ended. There are no second chances, no other worlds, no alternate timelines. He’s still here, at Brakebills. Alice is still dead. It’s still his fault. It’ll always be his fault. An image of Eliot with stark blue eyes, grinning at him wickedly, flashes through his mind.

_What the fuck are you doing?_

A soft knock at the door startles him out of his musings. He nearly jumps; he’d left his door cracked open, and he swings around to see Eliot nudging it open.

“Hey,” Eliot says, halfway in the office. “Can I come in?”

Quentin’s heart immediately starts hammering in his chest, and it nearly stops altogether when he meets Eliot’s eyes. He sees the same nervousness that he feels coursing through his veins, and he nods as he stands up, walking over to meet Eliot at the door.

“Yeah,” he says, “Please.”

Eliot slides into the office and Quentin shuts the door behind him. He turns to Eliot, one hand on the doorknob, the other reaching up to shove a lock of non-existent hair behind his ear—it’s all pulled tight in a low ponytail, and he’s honestly shocked he hasn’t yet teased any tendrils out with his fidgeting hands.

He looks up into Eliot’s eyes, which are definitely hazel with zero traces of blue, a little bit of eyeliner smudged around the edges, and the sharp corners of his anxiety soften. Being so close to Eliot, inches away, the spicy sweet scent of his cologne tickling Quentin’s nose… just seems to make everything smoother. Brighter. Complete.

It’s stupidly unfair how hot Eliot is. He’s wearing a beige vest with a white button down, no tie so the first few buttons can be undone, all under a grey plaid suit jacket. Quentin would look like a stuffed sock in that ensemble, but Eliot is elegant. Effortless. Gorgeous. Eliot smiles back, and they stare at each other dumbly for a few seconds.

“Um,” Quentin says, unable to take his eyes off him, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Eliot says back, and Quentin can’t help himself. He pushes up and kisses Eliot, chaste and quick, before pulling back.

Eliot isn’t having it though, and he chases Quentin’s lips, reaching to cradle Quentin’s cheek with one hand as he leans down and gives him a much more thorough kiss. Quentin lets go of the doorknob and slides his hands inside Eliot’s suit jacket, tugging him closer. He feels Eliot smile against his lips just before he slips his tongue inside Quentin’s mouth.

It’s exactly like Quentin remembered from their last time in his office, or in the cottage a few days ago. The press of Eliot’s body against his own, the warm taste of him on Quentin’s lips instantly quiets Quentin’s mind, settles the waves that have been violently washing ashore all morning.

Loud steps in the hallway pierce the haze in Quentin’s mind, and he gently pulls back from Eliot, just a few inches. “Okay—” his voice is raspy and he quickly clears his throat as Eliot looks at him with amusement in his eyes. “—okay, we can’t do this here.” His body is rebelling though, as his hands still stubbornly remain inside Eliot’s jacket, resting on his waist.

One of Eliot’s hands is settled on the back of Quentin’s neck, and as Eliot’s fingers gently tighten and release, Quentin can’t stop his eyes from fluttering closed, a soft exhale of air from escaping his lips. “Are you sure?” Eliot whispers, leaning down so his breath caresses the delicate skin of Quentin’s ear. “I seem to remember you quite enjoyed it last time.” Eliot’s other hand is rubbing up the back of Quentin’s arm, the heat of his palm bleeding through the fabric of Quentin’s shirt.

Eliot leans in and Quentin puts up no resistance, the kiss slow and full of promise. Quentin is starting to have a problem firming up in his pants, and it’s not one he’s willing to solve in his office on a Tuesday morning.

Not this particular Tuesday, anyway.

Quentin again pulls away, and this time pulls his hands out of Eliot’s jacket and takes a step back. Eliot’s hand falls from Quentin’s neck, down his arm. “Not in the middle of the day,” he says, leaning against the door, because he needs something to ground himself, to stop him from just shoving Eliot on the couch.

Eliot is enjoying testing his restraint, smiling down at Quentin as he takes a step forward, a predatory look in his eyes. “It’s morning,” he says easily, his hand trailing down to Quentin’s, grasping at his fingers.

Quentin’s gaze drops to Eliot’s lips, and before he can sway forward again, he turns his body away so they’re not facing each other, his back to the door, focusing on the window behind his desk. Their hands are still touching. Eliot’s fingers make their way to the slots between his own. It throws him off balance, being this close to Eliot. Touching him. Allowing himself to be touched.

“This isn’t why I asked you here.” Quentin tries to keep his tone firm, but the smile pulling at his lips isn't helping. He adjusts his posture, stepping away from the door.

Eliot squeezes his hand, and Quentin warily turns to look at him. Voices are coming from the hallway, of students and faculty walking by. “You asked me here to answer my questions…” Eliot says, his eyes light. “I still have several more for you.”

Quentin laughs, looking down to the floor, and then up to Eliot. “I bet you do.” He steps away, tugging Eliot by the hand and directing him to sit in one of the two chairs Quentin has in front of his desk for visitors. They could sit on the couch, just a few feet away, but Quentin knows that would be asking for trouble. “You sit there,” he tells Eliot, taking a seat next to him, far enough away that they can’t touch. “I sit here.”

Eliot smiles and humors him, sitting in his chair. “So,” Eliot asks, legs spread, leaning back, “Did you get enough time to think over the weekend? I certainly did. Spent a lot of time working on Chopsticks.”

Quentin immediately looks away and blushes, thinking of how many times he’d jerked off to the memory of shoving Eliot up against the piano. “How’s the piano? Still working?”

“Perfectly. It’s in the best shape I’ve ever seen, which is impressive considering it got more action in one day then it’s seen in years,” Eliot says. Quentin can feel his face getting hotter, and he glances over at Eliot to see him smirking. “But I didn’t come here to talk about the piano.”

Quentin’s face softens as Eliot’s grows more serious. “No,” Quentin says quietly. His nerves light up again, his mouth going dry as he considers his next words. “Eliot, I… I want to see you. Again. More.” He forces himself to keep his gaze on Eliot, even though he wants to look anywhere else. Eliot’s eyes are intense, pinning him down, striking and soothing his nerves all at the same time. “It’s not a good idea. It's like, the worst idea ever. We can’t tell anyone. But I…” he falters, looking away. _I’ve never wanted someone this much. I can’t stay away from you._

Eliot studies Quentin’s face. Then he slides his chair over a foot, close enough to lean forward and grab Quentin’s hand, completely negating the entire reason Quentin had separated them in the first place. But Quentin is grateful for it; the soft touch of Eliot’s fingers soothes the noise in his head. “You sure do know how to romance a guy,” Eliot jokes, tangling their fingers together.

Quentin hangs his head, then looks at Eliot, to their joined hands. “Sorry,” he says, smiling. “I’m not good at romance. Like. _At all_.”

Eliot hums. “Oh, I beg to differ. The best way to get me into your bed is to tell me what a bad idea it is in the first place.” Quentin rolls his eyes as Eliot smirks at him.

Then Eliot inhales, the smile dropping off his face like he’s steeling himself, and he meets Quentin’s eyes. “Quentin, I want to be with you. However I can. I know it’ll be… difficult.” He looks at their hands, swallowing hard. Then his eyes flicker back up to Quentin’s face, and Quentin has to remind himself to breathe at the heat he sees there. “But it’ll be worth it. I have no doubt about that.”

Unbidden, Eliot’s words to Quentin, on the bench next to the fountain, come back to him. _I know I don’t really know you very well, but… I can already tell you’d be worth it._ Quentin feels that same dizziness he did that night, like he’s racing in the dark, speeding to an unknown destination with such ferocity he could crash at any moment. Looking at Eliot, feeling the heat swell up between them, he knows where he’s headed. And it’s going to be a spectacular disaster when he gets there.

The moment is broken by the echo of loud voices in the hall, and Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand once more before he gets up, letting their connection break, needing some space before he acts on the urges swirling through his mind. Pinning Eliot to his desk, or sliding to his knees in front of Eliot’s chair, pulling his cock out and sliding his lips over it for the first time. Quentin turns and sits on the edge of his desk, facing Eliot.

“I should tell you that Margo knows,” Eliot says, leaning back in his chair as he looks up at Quentin, who nods. “I trust her. She won’t tell anyone.”

“She may kill me, though,” Quentin says, half-smiling.

Eliot shrugs. “There are worse ways to go.” They lock eyes again, and Quentin feels tingling on the back of his neck, and he wonders _will it always be like this?_ Trembling, heat crawling all over his body with only a glance from Eliot.

“So,” Quentin says, “Um. I was thinking,” he starts, Eliot’s expression turning curious, “I could probably get you into my room tonight. If you want.” Quentin’s eyes are darting between Eliot and the framed map of Fillory on the wall, and he shoves his hands in his pockets to stop from fidgeting. He can proposition random strangers he meets at a bar any night of the week, but asking Eliot to sneak into his room makes him want to crawl under his desk. _What is wrong with you?_

The smile on Eliot’s face is anything but innocent, making Quentin squirm in his seat. “Really?” he says, standing up, stepping in front of Quentin. Quentin is still sitting on the edge of his desk, and he keeps his body still as Eliot leans over him, placing his hands on the desk on each side, bracketing Quentin in. His hot breath fans over Quentin’s face, tickles his ear. “And what would we do? In your room?”

 _Get naked. Fuck. Repeatedly. Until we pass out, and then wake up and do it all over again._ Quentin swallows, and pulls back, tilting his head until he can look straight into Eliot’s eyes. They’re dark, eager, staring back at Quentin. _He wants this_ , Quentin thinks. _Just as much as I do._ He thinks of that moment a few weeks ago, in this office, when he had Eliot's cock in the palm of his hand, had him writhing and gasping with a few strokes of his fingers.

Swallowing the part of himself that wants to hide, he says, “I was planning on fucking you until you can’t walk straight. But if you’re not interested, I guess we could watch a movie or something.”

Eliot’s eyes widen, and Quentin thinks he stops breathing for a second. Then he leans forward, one of his hands sliding up Quentin’s thigh. _Christ_ , his hand can practically span Quentin’s entire thigh; he slides it so far up his fingertips are inches away from Quentin’s hardening cock. “You are making it very hard to behave,” Eliot says, and Quentin’s eyes fall shut as Eliot’s lips graze his ear.

Quentin turns his head and places a soft kiss on Eliot’s cheek. “I think we’re both failing on that front,” he says, sliding his hand over the one gripping his thigh. Eliot turns his head and kisses Quentin, chastely, and then stands up and pulls away, clearing his throat and straightening his jacket.

“The longer we stay in this room, the greater the odds are that we tear each other's clothes off,” Eliot says lightly, but Quentin can tell from the heat in his eyes that he’s only like, 25% joking. 15%. 2%.

Quentin nods. The thought of Eliot leaving already, after only being here a few minutes, makes him frown. Shaking it off, he asks, “Can you get to the back door of the teacher dorms without anyone seeing sometime after ten tonight? You can text me when you get there. Everyone else that lives there should be in their rooms for the night, and Penny should be out.”

Eliot smiles at him. “I’m excellent at espionage. I’ll be there. Can I have your phone?”

Quentin nods and grabs his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to Eliot. He watches as Eliot puts his contact information in, and a thought occurs to Quentin. “Hey, don’t put your… real name in,” he says, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth. _I’m a complete dick_. He could probably explain a student's name and number in his phone contacts, but it would involve a lot of stuttering, blushing, and hand gestures. It would be just his luck he’d be in a meeting with Fogg and ‘Eliot Waugh’ would flash across his phone.

If it bothers Eliot, he doesn’t show it. He’s already nodding in Quentins direction—“I got it.” He hands Quentin his phone and pulls out his own.

Quentin looks down, to find a new text message sent to the contact ‘Nigel’—although the name is surrounded by several emojis that wouldn’t be any better flashing across his screen than Eliot’s name would be. Maybe even worse. The text simply says ‘Hey gorgeous.’ As Quentin is staring at it, a reply comes in—‘See you tonight, beautiful.’ Quentin smiles despite himself, and looks up to find Eliot watching him.

  


“Nigel?” Quentin asks, putting his phone down on his desk.

Eliot shrugs, putting his phone back in his pocket. “In the interest of not fucking you senseless, I should probably go.” Quentin pulse spikes at the image that conjures in his mind, and Eliot steps over to him, until he’s right in front of Quentin, gazing down at him. He picks up Quentin’s hand, and brings it to his lips.

“Until tonight, Professor,” he says, brushing his lips over Quentin’s knuckles. And then he _winks_. The door clicks shut behind him.

Quentin stares at the door, and then sags back against his desk. He glances at the clock on the wall—three hours until his one class today. And then at least another six until he sees Eliot again.

It’s going to be the longest fucking day ever.

~~~

An eternity later, Quentin is in his room, trying to not smoke his entire supply in an attempt to calm his nerves.

He’s already cleaned his room—straightened up his bookshelf (because Eliot might be interested in browsing his extensive collection of fantasy novels, of course), organized his desk, and changed his bedsheets. That took all of fifteen minutes before he was moving between laying on his bed, pacing, and then sitting at his desk. _Christ. Get a grip._

The building is quiet—Quentin hasn’t seen Penny at all, which means he’s staying off campus tonight, as expected. Quentin knows his mental wards are probably a mess right now, and Penny finding out, either from the visuals leaking out of Quentin’s brain or from running into Eliot sneaking down the hall to Quentin’s room, would be very _not good_. Quentin doesn’t think Penny would turn him in to Fogg, but he’d _definitely_ tell Julia. Those two had struck up an odd friendship when Quentin had gotten hired, and together they formed the ‘Keep Quentin Coldwater From Completely Destroying Himself Squad’. Which, yes, he’s very thankful that he has people who want to protect him from himself, but they would definitely get in the way of his plans to fuck Eliot within an inch of his life.

Besides him and Penny, only a handful of other faculty live in the dorms; all older people who are usually in bed by nine. Quentin passes them some weekends when they’re going to bed and he’s just heading out for the night. Professor Cortez, who teaches Specialized Transfiguration, always glares at Quentin, like he’s mad at him for being young and having a life.

Quentin is taking a risk. Bringing Eliot here, to his room—it’s pretty stupid. But he can’t go to the Cottage. They could portal somewhere, get a hotel, but that just feels… dirty. And not in the good way. Quentin’s gone home with a lot of guys, seen the inside of a lot of apartments and hotel rooms. He doesn’t bring anyone here. But, even as much as he tries to convince himself it’s not, it’s different with Eliot.

Quentin heads downstairs to the kitchen and makes himself a drink, and then brings the bottle of whiskey up to his room with him, along with a couple of glasses. He finishes it, and pours another. His nerves aren’t really disappearing, but they’re morphing—into excitement. Anticipation. Of Eliot here. In his space, where he lives. In his bed. Naked.

He stops obsessively checking his phone every two minutes. He does it every three minutes instead. It’s 10:18 when he finally hears the ping of a text message.

_Eliot [10:18pm]_

_Right outside, Juliet._

Quentin looks at the message in confusion, and then heads downstairs. The building is dark; Quentin feels only a little like a spy as he pads through the dark building in his socks. (This part of spywork he can handle, as long as no one is around and he doesn’t get caught.) The back door is silent when he opens it and peers into the dark night. The faculty apartments back into the forest that surrounds most of Brakebills, and at first Quentin only sees shadowy trees and brush. But then Eliot steps into the dim light shining from the fixture next to the door.

“Hey,” he says, stepping up to the entrance.

Quentin stares at him a moment. He’s changed—his red and black polka-dot button down fits perfectly in all the right places (as do his black slacks), and he has a small bag slung over one shoulder. His hair is tousled, and Quentin’s fingers are already itching to push back that one curl that always falls over his forehead. “Hi,” Quentin says back, his mouth dry. “Juliet?” he asks, holding up his phone.

Eliot smirks at him. “Star crossed lovers, doomed by their circumstances, can only meet under the cover of darkness? Seems apt.”

“And you’re Romeo, in this scenario?”

“Of course. Who else would I be?” Quentin rolls his eyes, and then steps back, allowing Eliot into the house.

“I’m on the second floor; follow me and be quiet,” he says, keeping his voice low. Eliot nods, his eyes darting around while his hands grip the strap of his bag.

They make it to his room without incident, and once inside, Quentin locks his door and double checks his wards. Just in case. When he turns, Eliot is walking around, taking it all in.

His room is much like his office—a few art prints on the walls (again, from Julia), and the crammed bookshelf, desk, bed. His bulletin board is above his desk, full of random class notes, and a few pictures that Julia had pinned up. A door leading to his bathroom is to one side, and blue and white plaid curtains, leftover from the previous tenant, adorn his windows. He has his bedside and desk lamps on, casting odd shadows across the room.

“Welcome,” Quentin says, feeling hopelessly awkward. It’s odd, but pleasing seeing Eliot here—his effortless elegance against Quentin’s spartan, clunky furnishings. “It’s not much…” Quentin’s thought about this moment all day, for weeks really, and now that it’s here, he doesn’t want to ruin it by being… himself.

Eliot turns to him and smiles. Quentin’s thought about that smile a completely normal amount. “The best Brakebills has to offer?” he jokes.

Quentin smiles, and remembers himself—he’s not the timid, awkward Quentin Coldwater that started at Brakebills ten years ago, too shy to even ask someone out. He’s Professor Coldwater, who may still be awkward, but he’s far from bashful. He’s seen some shit, he’s more than a little fucked up, and he knows what it sounds like when Eliot comes in his hand. He wants to hear what he sounds like when he comes in his mouth. While Quentin is inside him.

Shoving away the younger, bumbling version of himself that would be flipping out at having Eliot in his room, he leaves his spot in front of his door to stand next to him, reach out and take his hand. He runs his thumb over Eliot’s knuckles, tugs him closer. “Thanks for coming over,” he says, reaching up and pulling Eliot’s face to his.

This kiss is soft, chaste, and Eliot pulls away much too quickly, but Quentin feels that familiar heat crawl up his stomach, over his ribs, cresting over his chest. Eliot smiles down at him, his eyes shining—“Thanks for inviting me.” Then he pulls away to set his bag down on Quentin’s desk.

Quentin sits on his bed, watching curiously as Eliot picks up the bottle of whiskey Quentin had left there. Eliot frowns at it, and then starts pulling liquor bottles out of his bag.

“You brought party favors?” Quentin asks, amused. The bag must be spelled to be larger, cooled, whatever as Eliot just keeps pulling out bottles, glasses, a shaker. “Did you bring the entire bar?”

“Basically,” Eliot says, finally having everything laid out on the desk. “So, you’re a physical kid.” He turns to face Quentin as he opens a bottle of vodka.

Quentin nods, focusing on Eliot’s hands as they twist open the top. “Yep.”

“And you’ve never had an Eliot Waugh Signature Cocktail,” Eliot says, turning back to his work. “I can’t let a travesty like that go unchecked.”

Quentin chuckles as Eliot gets to work. The physical kids always had a party reputation, known for lighting up their area of campus most weekends. Every class had a kind of ‘leader’ in that respect—in his year, it was Elli, who loved loud music and lighting effects—even though the cottage would move around campus periodically, no one had any trouble finding it when Elli threw a party. There were always colorful balls of light ping-ponging around the cottage, or mini fireworks bursting in the sky above. Quentin learned silencing wards real quick after he was assigned to the cottage; otherwise he would never have gotten any sleep. He knew Eliot and Margo had assumed the role as soon as they were enrolled, although he’d never get to bear witness to one of their parties. Which was probably for the best; he and Eliot could hardly keep their hands off each other in his office, throw them in a dark room with alcohol and drugs and he’d be unemployed by midnight.

It makes his chest warm to think of Eliot trying to bring a piece of it to him.

Watching Eliot mix a drink is almost as satisfying as watching him cast—his hands move quickly, expertly, rarely a misstep as his fingers flex over the long neck of a liquor bottle, down the stem of the martini glass. Quentin can feel that soft heat crawling up the back of his chest as he imagines those fingers all over his body, digging into his sweaty skin. Eliot catches Quentin watching him, and he quirks an eyebrow, smiles as he mixes their drinks in the shaker. _Enjoying the show?_ he’s asking.

 _Yes_ , is the resounding reply.

Way too quickly, Eliot walks towards him, a glass in each hand.

“It’s green,” Quentin says, eyeing the drink as Eliot hands it to him.

“That it is,” Eliot agrees. He sits next to Quentin on the bed, and holds his glass up. “To tonight,” he says, meeting Quentin’s eyes. They’re dark and light at the same time, looking at him in a way that makes Quentin’s stomach tighten.

“To tonight,” Quentin echoes, taking a sip. It’s strong—even for him. But it’s also sweet and tangy, rolling inside his mouth and lighting up every taste bud. “Holy shit,” he says, “That’s good.”

Eliot smiles, turning to face him. Quentin has one hand resting on the bed, and Eliot trails his fingers over his knuckles, sliding his palm up his wrist. “How was the rest of your day?” Eliot asks as his fingers slide up the sleeve of Quentin’s long-sleeve Henley.

“Long,” Quentin says immediately. Eliot’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist, and he thinks of the Observatory Tower—wrapping his own hands around Eliot’s wrists, feeling Eliot’s pulse beat against the pads of his fingertips. Does Eliot feel his now? Can he tell how fast it’s racing?

Eliot gives a small smile as he takes another sip of his drink, his fingers idly tracing the veins in Quentin’s wrist. Quentin can feel that touch all over his body—on his wrist, his ribs, his thigh, his cock.

“Me too,” Eliot says. “I spent most of it in the library, trying to work on my thesis.”

“How’d that go?” Quentin asks. Eliot gently shoves Quentin’s sleeve up to his elbow, so he can run the tips of his fingers up and down Quentin’s forearm. Quentin wants to savor the drink Eliot made for him; he wants to relish every drop as it slides down his tongue. But his craving for Eliot, the need to feel his skin under his hands, to lick the sweat off his chest, to drag his teeth over the line of Eliot’s hip, is eclipsing everything else in the room.

“It didn’t,” Eliot said, taking another large sip. They’d be done with their drinks in record time, at this rate. “I think I wrote two sentences. In Latin. The spells I’m working with are in Romanian.”

Quentin chuckles, watching Eliot as he looks around Quentin’s room, as his fingers on one hand lightly grip the stem of his martini glass, and the fingers on his other hand lazily stroke up and down Quentin’s arm. “You decide on a topic?” Quentin asks. This is his third drink in an hour and a half, and he’s finally getting that warm, floaty sensation in his limbs. He stills Eliot’s wandering hand in order to drag his fingers over Eliot’s knuckles, rub his thumb over Eliot’s palm. His eyes wander down Eliot’s chest, to his thighs—how would those feel wrapped around him? Squeezing him as he drives into Eliot’s body?

He notices the slight hitch in Eliot’s breath. “Um, I was thinking about manipulating some telekinesis spells to affect a larger area; picking up more than a single target.” Eliot takes another sip, his eyes glassy.

“Oh, like an AOE spell?” Quentin asks as he flicks open the button on Eliot’s shirt cuff. He drags his nails lightly over the delicate skin of Eliot’s inner wrist.

“Mmhmm,” Eliot hums. “Sure.” He turns to Quentin, leaning in his space, his eyes hooded. “What did you do yours on?”

 _If I’d known it existed, I would’ve picked your dick._ The thought makes Quentin giggle (signalling that he’s just on the right side of tipsy), which quickly melts into a frown as Eliot’s question settles in his brain. He never finished his thesis. He’d started one on applying the principles of mending objects to mental and physical healing, but things had… happened before he finished. His brow furrows as he tries to suppress the memories threatening to bubble up. Late nights in the library, arguments with Alice over what she was studying, a conversation with Fogg… _Don’t worry about the rest of term, Quentin. Focus on yourself. Brakebills will always be here._

Quentin clears his throat, and he reaches over and plucks Eliot’s almost-empty glass out of his hand. He stands and sets them on the nightstand, along with his glasses, turning back to see Eliot watching him. “You didn't come here to talk about my thesis,” he says, returning to his spot next to Eliot, one hand sliding over the one Eliot has resting on the bed.

Eliot smirks at him and leans into his space until his face is only inches from Quentins. “And why did I come here?” he asks, his eyes flicking down to Quentin’s lips.

Quentin leans in and covers Eliot’s mouth with his, his other hand reaching up to bury his fingers in Eliot’s hair. It’s so fucking soft. Quentin pulls away, just slightly, his hot breath teasing across Eliot’s face. “You came here,” he says, his lips tracing down the smooth skin of Eliot’s jaw—“So I can get your cock down my throat”—Eliot shudders as Quentin kisses along his neck—“So I can eat you out until you’re begging”—Eliot turns into him, one hand sliding along Quentin’s thigh, up and under his shirt to get at the bare skin of his waist—“ _pleading_ for me to fuck you.” He licks up to Eliot’s ear, scraping the soft skin of his earlobe with his teeth as Eliot’s fingers dig hard into the skin of his back.

Quentin pulls back, his lips just a breath away from Eliot’s. The air in the room is warmer, thicker, his clothing feels too tight, and his cock is already half-hard from the thought of Eliot writhing beneath him. “Does that sound okay?” he asks, his hand drifting down from Eliot’s hair to the back of his neck, gripping lightly.

Eliot licks his lips as he tugs Quentin closer. “Yes, _Professor,_ ” he whispers, pulling Quentin into a short, hard kiss. “Touch me. Taste me. Teach me. Do _anything you want_ with me.”

Quentin kisses him, thrusting his tongue into Eliot’s mouth as he slides his hands up to fist into Eliot’s hair, swallowing down Eliot’s answering groan.

He’s waited too long for this. Twelve hours today, weeks before that, thirty-two years before that. As Eliot’s lips slide over his, his hands kneading and scratching up Quentin’s back, Quentin thinks he can never go back. Now that he knows what this feels like, as if he’s waking up from a haze he didn’t even know he was immersed in, seeing color where once was only shades of grey—he’s crashed headlong into Eliot, he’s burning up, and it’s beautiful and intense and exquisite.

They’re kissing hard and deep, clinging to each other like desperate lovers on borrowed time. Eliot’s hands travel up Quentin’s back, shoving his shirt up to his armpits, and Quentin huffs at having to pull away to get it off. After he tosses it to the floor, he pulls Eliot into another wet kiss, his fingers working the buttons on Eliot’s shirt. They need to be naked, like, _yesterday_.

“Thank you for not wearing a million layers,” Quentin mumbles against Eliot’s lips, and he feels Eliot’s answering grin.

“I thought about it,” Eliot says as Quentin pushes his shirt over his shoulders, Quentin kissing down Eliot’s neck as he pulls it down Eliot’s arms and tosses it onto the floor. “Driving you crazy, making you wait as long as possible until you could get your hands on my cock.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin says, pulling Eliot into another sloppy kiss before shoving him back on the bed, running his hand down Eliot’s bare chest as he leans over him. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about your cock in the last few weeks?”

Eliot wraps a hand around the back of Quentin’s neck and pulls him down against him. Quentin sighs into Eliot’s mouth and let’s his body relax on top of Eliot; this is already one of his favorite things; when Eliot just grabs him and puts him where he wants him. Usually he’s the one in charge when he’s with a guy, but last time he'd nearly come in his pants when Eliot had lifted him up and sat him on the couch so he could suck his cock.

Eliot’s hands move down Quentin’s back, sliding under the waistband of his pants and boxers, until he’s palming the bare skin of Quentin’s ass, squeezing and pulling him tight in between his thighs. “I have some idea,” he says into Quentin’s ear. “Probably as much as I’ve thought about this ass. Do you have any idea how often you turn your back to the class?”

Quentin laughs, burying his face in Eliot’s neck. “I do not,” he says weakly.

Eliot chuckles and squeezes tight with his fingers just as he grinds up; Quentin can’t stop the soft noise that falls from his lips at the friction from Eliot’s hard cock pressing against his own. Eliot speaks again, whispering in his ear. “I didn’t say I was complaining.”

Quentin pushes up on one hand and falls to Eliot’s side, and Eliot’s hands pull out of Quentin’s pants and caress up his back. Leaning in, Quentin kisses him, stroking their tongues togethers as his hand travels down Eliot’s neck, to his chest. He’s not usually into kissing this much, but he can’t get enough of the taste of Eliot; the sweet alcohol that still lingers on his tongue, the way he nibbles on Quentin’s lower lip with his teeth.

Quentin pulls back, trailing his lips over the smooth line of Eliot’s jaw, fingers carding through Eliot’s chest hair, licking over to his ear as he grazes over a nipple. Eliot arches his head back into Quentin’s pillow, and Quentin’s hand moves lower, over Eliot’s stomach, to his waistband, until he cups the hard length of him, smoothing his fingers over Eliot’s cock through the thin fabric of his pants. Quentin traces the smooth line of him down to the head, increasing the pressure of his hand, enjoying the sharp gasp from Eliot.

Quentin’s hand moves to Eliot’s fly, and he unbuttons and unzips his slacks. He slides his hand in expecting to find the barrier of Eliot’s underwear, but instead his palm wraps directly around Eliot’s dick.

“You really did ditch all the layers,” Quentin says, a little delirious. The thought of Eliot casually striding across campus to see Quentin with only a pair of pants to contain his borderline obscene cock is making his own dick throb almost painfully in his pants.

He glances up to find Eliot watching him. “I didn’t want to waste any time,” Eliot says, one hand reaching up to brush Quentin’s hair behind his ear. Quentin feels that connection again, that string taut and tight between them, and he leans in for another kiss.

Pulling away, Quentin tugs on Eliot’s pants, and Eliot lifts his hips so Quentin can pull them further down his thighs. His cock bobs out, hard and ready, and he makes a strangled noise as Quentin wraps his hand around it and strokes it from head to base, feeling it grow firmer under his fingers.

 _Fuck_ , he can’t wait to get his mouth on it. He wanted to taste Eliot last time—but he didn't have the patience to move them, and honestly, seeing the size of what he was working with had left him struck a little dumb. He’s had plenty of time to prepare since then, to think about how to make it good for Eliot, and here, in his bed, there’s plenty of room.

Giving head is kind of Quentin’s thing. Having someone squirming under him (or over him), gasping and writhing just from his lips and tongue sends him on a high like no other. It also really fucking turns him on, to know he can pull someone apart with only his mouth. When he hooks up with anyone it’s his go-to—100% satisfaction guaranteed and he’s never had a complaint that he couldn’t solve with a precise tongue and a very forgiving gag reflex.

Quentin moves down the bed and makes quick work of Eliot’s shoes and pants, tossing them to the floor. Quentin’s breath catches in his throat as he looks at Eliot, now completely naked and fully laid out on Quentin’s bed. Atop those same bed sheets that Quentin sweats on when he strokes his cock, until he comes gasping and moaning to fantasies of Eliot’s mouth, his hands, his fucking incredible dick.

His eyes trace every line of Eliot’s body, starting at the gentle slope of his neck, where Quentin had left dark momentos of their last… first time together. His chest, moving quickly with every breath. Leading down to his soft stomach, the curve of his hip bone that’s begging to be licked, his cock bobbing between the sleek line of his thighs. Quentin doesn’t know what will happen after tonight, but this… this he needs to remember.

Quentin’s eyes flicker up to Eliot’s face, where he sees a hint of insecurity in his bright eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” Quentin murmurs, crawling forward, sliding one hand up Eliot’s shin, wrapping around to squeeze his calf. Eliot’s eyes flutter shut, and Quentin thinks of their last meeting, when Eliot blew him on the couch in his office. His teasing fingers crawling all over Quentin’s legs when all he wanted was Eliot’s mouth on his cock.

Quentin smirks and slides both hands up Eliot’s legs, above his knees, to his lower thighs. He can feel a slight tremor in Eliot’s body, and he leans down, laying soft kisses on Eliot’s shins, up to his knees. He inches forward, his hands teasing on Eliot’s skin, licking and mouthing his way up Eliot’s body.

Eliot’s breath is coming faster, his muscles growing tense under Quentin’s palm. Quentin continues his slow walk up Eliot’s lower half, kneading into Eliot’s thighs as he leaves a wet trail up the inside of Eliot’s knee. His hands drift closer to the base of Eliot’s cock, rubbing and stroking around, near, but never touching it.

“ _Fuck_ , Quentin,” Eliot says in a strangled voice, his hand coming to grip the one Quentin has splayed out on Eliot’s lower hip as Quentin licks up his inner thigh, noses at his balls. “For someone who says he’s spent weeks thinking about my cock, you’re not in any hurry to _do_ anything with it.”

Quentin chuckles as he sits up, moving his hands in a protection and cleaning tut. Eliot’s eyes are hooded as he gazes at Quentin, and then they widen slightly as Quentin completely ignores his cock and crawls further up his body, leaning in for a kiss.

“Okay,” Eliot says against Quentin’s lips, “You’re taking the teasing to unfair extremes.”

Quentin smiles as he reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer. Eliot takes advantage of his position to attach his lips to Quentin’s neck, rub his foot down Quentin’s leg as Quentin grabs lube out of his drawer. He magicks it when he needs to, but in general he prefers the real deal. And with what Eliot brings to the table… Quentin will need more than what magic can provide in one go.

He squeezes some out into his hand and tosses the tube behind him on the bed. Then, with one more look at Eliot, he crawls back down, settling between Eliot’s thighs.

He drags his slick fingers from base to tip of Eliot’s cock, lingering at the head for a moment, then back down. He should’ve taken his pants off before he started—they’re so tight now they’re uncomfortable, but no way he’s stopping, not when he finally has what he wants, so naked and willing in front of him. Eliot’s already rock hard, and his soft keen at Quentin’s touch spurs Quentin on—he wants to pull as many of those sounds out of Eliot’s mouth as possible.

He moves his hand down to Eliot’s balls, touching and caressing as he licks up Eliot’s cock, pushing himself up to fully engulf the head. He licks and sucks, bobbing up and down as Eliot mumur’s above him—soft whispers of encouragement, sharps gasps and inhales. The weight of Eliot on his tongue, the salty taste of him is addictive, and it’s not long before Quentin has abandoned all pretense of being delicate and is enthusiastically sucking him down as far as he can take him.

And Eliot is _a lot_ to take. Quentin makes up the difference with his hand—curling around the base, stroking his length when he moves his face lower to tongue at Eliot’s balls. While he tries to pull Eliot apart with his lips and tongue, his own body is tightening, straining, imagining Eliot fucking him, stroking inside as Quentin chases his own release.

Eliot tentatively places his hand on Quentin’s head, and at Quentin’s answering moan he grips in tight with his fingers. Hair pulling is a _thing_ for Quentin, and he has to reach down to unbutton his own pants to try to relieve some of the pressure. Eliot’s other hand grips Quentin’s bare shoulder, fingers digging in.

It’s easy to read Eliot—he’s communicative, not only with his words, but with his body. Quentin can tell from how Eliot’s hips push forward, how his nails scratch harder, that he likes Quentin’s tongue swirling around the head of his cock. And when Quentin puts a hand on Eliot’s chest and presses down, holding him in place while he relaxes his throat and takes Eliot’s dick nearly to the root, Eliot’s eyes roll back in his head and he curses loudly.

The closer he gets, the more Eliot babbles. “I’ve wanted to fuck your mouth ever since I first laid eyes on it—come on, you can take it, fuck _yes_ — _Goddamn_ , Professor, I would sit for your oral exam any day.” The last one causes Quentin to pull off, nearly choking in laughter.

It’s not long before Eliot is pulling at Quentin’s hair in a very definitive manner, and Quentin pulls off, looking up at Eliot. He’s panting as he locks eyes with Quentin, and whatever he sees on Quentin’s face causes his dick to twitch under Quentin’s palm.

As much as Quentin likes giving head, swallowing is not his thing. He’s fine to pull off and let someone finish wherever they like on his body (save the face. Again, just not his thing), but there is no way that he’s not going to take every inch of what Eliot gives him. And what he wants is Eliot’s come down his throat; Eliot could paint his entire body and Quentin would roll in it, lap it up and ask for more.

Before Eliot can open his mouth, Quentin asks, “You can come again, right?”

Eliot gapes at him like he’d just suggested they put their clothes back on and go downstairs for tea. “Wh-what?” he stutters.

Quentin lazily strokes Eliot’s cock with the fingers of one hand, the other sliding up the inside of Eliot’s thigh. “You’re young. Nubile. You can go again soon.”

Eliot licks his lips. “I’m not that—” then he closes his eyes and nods, “Okay. Yeah, I can.”

Quentin squeezes Eliot’s thigh as he wraps his lips around Eliot’s cock, bobbing up and down as Eliot’s nails dig into the skin of his shoulder. He moves his fingers, still slick, below Eliot’s balls, to circle the tight hole just beneath. Eliot’s hips jerk beneath him as Quentin inserts one finger, slowly, to the knuckle, and then Eliot’s entire body tenses and he comes, softly laughing and sighing as Quentin works him through it, swallowing every drop. The sound of Eliot when he comes will be the hidden melody on the soundtrack of his life.

Quentin crawls up the bed, laying half on top of Eliot. Eliot pulls him up and kisses him deeply, wrapping his arms around Quentin’s torso, palms dragging down his back. Quentin pulls aways, their foreheads together, Eliot still gasping for breath, and asks “So did I pass my oral exam?” Eliot has one thigh pressed between Quentin’s, and Quentin can’t resist grinding down against it. The friction is so fucking good against his cock, still painfully hard in his jeans.

Eliot laughs, pressing his head back into Quentin’s pillow. “With flying colors,” he says, his eyes searching Quentin’s face, smirking as he moves his thigh in a way that makes Quentin’s eyes close, his breath hitch. “It’s unfair, how talented you are with your tongue.”

Quentin smiles down at Eliot, kisses him again. “You’re pretty talented yourself.”

Eliot smirks. “Well, not to brag, but I have been told my tongue is a weapon.” Quentin rolls his eyes; he can remember that exact statement falling out of his mouth when Eliot had blown him in his office.

“In fact,” Eliot continues, his hands snaking in between them to the zipper of Quentin’s jeans, “I’d be happy to remind you of the full force of my arsenal.”

He shoves Quentin’s jeans down his hips and pulls his dick out, stroking him once, twice. Quentin can’t help the moan that falls from his lips; he’s so hard and it feels so fucking good to have Eliot touch him. But he has a plan, and that does not include coming all over Eliot before he’s gotten inside him.

Quentin grabs Eliot’s hand, stilling him, even though his cock is protesting, a bead of moisture forming at the tip. “Oh, I know you’re fully... cocked and loaded,” Quentin says, almost able to keep a straight face as Eliot cracks up, “But I’m not done with you yet.” Eliot’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and he allows Quentin to move his hand from Quentin’s cock to his jeans, helping shove them down Quentin’s legs. Quentin tosses them to the floor, and straddles Eliot on the bed, Eliot hissing as Quentin settles his ass against Eliot’s soft cock. Eliot’s hands drop to Quentin’s thighs, fingers sliding up to his back as Quentin leans over him. “Begging and pleading, remember?”

Quentin holds his gaze for a moment as Eliot stares back at him, evaluating. Then he sets his jaw, the challenge in his eyes making Quentin’s heart beat faster. “Do your worst, professor. Teach me a lesson I’ll never forget.”

Quentin can’t help but kiss him again, and as he tosses a pillow near his feet, licking down Eliot’s neck, he says, “You know, you’re going to use up all the teacher puns tonight if you’re not careful.”

“Should I save some for next time?” Eliot asks as Quentin reaches his chest, Quentin’s ass dragging over Eliot’s cock as he slides down Eliot’s body.

Quentin pauses, just for a moment, but it’s enough for Eliot to notice, for his body to tense slightly. _Next time._ Quentin wants a next time, he wants hundreds of next times. He wants to explore every inch of Eliot’s body with his fingers and tongue, to fill and be filled by him, over and over. But this—them—is temporary. Even beyond the fact that Eliot is a student—Quentin isn’t fit for any kind of permanence. With anyone. Or anything.

But just tonight won’t be enough. And as he looks up into Eliot’s eyes, a tinge of worry within the heat and lust, he knows there will be a next time. He’ll chase this feeling until it kills him. And he’ll die satisfied.

“Yeah,” he whispers, placing a kiss on the divot of Eliot’s hip, “For next time.” Without pausing, he pushes Eliot’s thighs apart, nosing at his soft dick, which is already showing interest again.

Quentin grabs the pillow he’d tossed down the bed, and without prompting Eliot lifts his hips so Quentin can slide it under. Quentin also grabs the lube and squeezes some into his hand, covering his fingers. He can feel Eliot’s eyes on him, burning into his skin, and his heart jumps when he looks up and sees the intensity shining in Eliot’s gaze. It freezes and enflames him all at once; and he keeps eye contact as he leans down and licks at the head of Eliot’s cock, Eliot’s eyes fluttering shut as Quentin feels it thicken against his tongue.

“Fuck, Quentin,” Eliot gasps as Quentin takes him in deeper. He circles Eliot’s tight hole with one finger, and then slides it all the way in.

 _Fuck_ , he’s tight. There are spells for this—to open him up for Quentin, so he can glide right in, and bring Eliot to the brink while he fucks him. Quentin usually uses them when he’s with another magician, but tonight, he doesn’t want that. He wants the scenic route—where he can stop to taste every part of Eliot along the way, to be inside him with his tongue and his fingers—any way he can.

Eliot’s cock is growing firmer in Quentin’s mouth, and he’s moving, squirming as Quentin pumps one finger, and then two into him, slowly. Quentin keeps his eyes up, watching as Eliot drags one hand through his hair, gripping and pulling, the other grasping at the bedspread. Quentin has to look away because he’s getting himself so worked up watching Eliot’s reaction to what he’s doing to him—Quentin is grinding his hips into the edge of the bed, trying to give his cock some of the attention it’s begging for.

Eliot’s dick drops from Quentin’s lips so Quentin can mouth at Eliot’s balls as he removes his fingers. Eliot whimpers, and then curses loudly, nearly arching off the bed when Quentin drags the flat of his tongue over his hole. Quentin lays his hands on Eliot’s hips and thighs, holding him down, spread apart as he works his tongue around sensitive skin, and then presses it inside him.

He works Eliot open with his tongue for what feels like hours, relishing every gasp, moan, and nonsense that Eliot falls from Eliot’s lips. He pushes back with his hips when Quentin takes a breath, like he doesn’t want him to get away, and his hands reach for Quentin’s, grasping at his palm, nails digging into his wrists. Once Eliot’s dick is bobbing with his movements, Quentin moves back to blowing him, sucking on his cock while his fingers scissor and thrust inside him.

When he’s worked up to three fingers inside, he pulls his mouth off Eliot’s dick and stills his fingers. Eliot is soft and pliable, taking it and pushing back against Quentin’s hand, his fingers digging into the bedspread, head pushed back into the pillow. Quentin had wanted Eliot begging, but fuck that, Quentin is about to start weeping if he doesn’t get his cock inside him now.

“Turn over,” Quentin says gruffly, getting up on his knees. Eliot sits up as Quentin pulls his fingers out, his face and chest red, hair completely fucked. He grabs Quentin and reels him in, thrusting his tongue in Quentin’s mouth, biting at his lip.

“That’s how you wanna fuck me?” Eliot asks, panting into Quentin’s mouth. “Put me on all fours and slide right into me?”

“ _Fuck_ , yes.” This desperation, almost frenzied desire is making him tremble all over, like he will fucking pass out if he doesn’t fuck Eliot right this goddamn second. “I want to watch my dick push into you, over and over, and I want to feel you come on my cock. Can I do that? Can I fuck you so hard you’ll feel it tomorrow?”

Eliot kisses him one more time, so hard their teeth clack together, before turning around and getting on his hands and knees. He spreads his legs and looks back at Quentin, who’s motionless, staring. Eliot's back is toned, muscular, and for the first time, Quentin sees the tattoo on the upper half of his back, between his shoulder blades. Quentin has a very similar one in the same place—the one every student gets at the end of the trials. The first letter of their name in a gothic font, surrounded by an ornate framework. The large 'E' on Eliot's back is dark against his skin, flexing with every movement. Even from here, Quentin can feel the magic swirling inside it. Eliot’s never released his demon. Never had any cause to.

Lucky him.

Quentin’s nostrils flare at the sight, emotions flaming up within him. He can’t—he _can’t_ _think about that_ right now.

He drags his gaze down to Eliot’s ass—firm, beautiful, and so ready to be fucked. He’s never thought of himself as an ass man, but Eliot is challenging every perception Quentin has had about himself. Eliot's is arched up in the air, begging for Quentin's cock to slip right in.

“You gonna stare at it or fuck me?” Eliot asks, his eyes wild as he stares back at Quentin. Inhaling sharply, Quentin quickly casts a protection tut over himself. With shaking hands, he grabs the lube he'd tossed on the bed, and strokes it over his cock, eyes on Eliot's ass the entire time. He runs a hand over one of Eliot’s cheeks, grabbing , squeezing, slightly parting them before smoothing his palm up over Eliot’s back, pressing his dick up against the cleft of his lovely ass.

“Think you’re ready?” Quentin asks, unable to stop teasing, even as his words are slightly slurred from desire, his cock leaking between them. He’s gonna have to focus to not blow his load the second he pushes inside.

“I’ve been ready since I walked in here,” Eliot retorts, pushing back against Quentin’s hard cock, sliding his ass up and down it’s length. Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, and he takes a shuddering breath that turns into a sharp exhale when Eliot adds, “Don’t stop until you come. Don’t pull out.”

Quentin’s eyes fly open and he meets Eliot’s eye for another moment, and then he pulls Eliot’s cheeks apart, revealing his entrance, wet and waiting from Quentin’s preparation. He lines up and bears into him as Eliot relaxes and pushes back into it.

It’s fucking divine. The silky heat of Eliot, so tight around his dick as he slides the head in. Quentin has no idea if Eliot regularly bottoms (they really should have talked about that before Quentin boldly declared he was going to top Eliot like there was no tomorrow), but he clearly knows what he’s doing. He relaxes into it, keeps his body pliable and Quentin slides in halfway before he has to stop and take a breath so he doesn’t come immediately. He prides himself on his ability to go the distance, but Eliot has a way of breaking down every barrier Quentin thought he had carefully erected around himself.

Quentin holds onto Eliot’s hips with one hand, the other caressing up Eliot’s back as he pulls out, and then slowly thrusts back in, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He pushes all the way in until his hips are right against Eliot’s ass, Eliot gasping and groaning beneath him.

“You are so goddamn tight,” Quentin gasps, pulling out, and then sliding back in, spreading his thighs so he can get more leverage, keeping his eyes on Eliot’s ass so he can watch as his cock disappears inside. Not looking at his upper back, at the tattoo there. “So fucking good. I’ve thought about—I knew you—” He breaks off, digging his fingers into Eliot’s hip, leaning forward so he can taste his way down Eliot’s back, lick away the sweat and salt, trail his teeth down his spine. And he can’t resist dragging the flat of his tongue down Eliot’s tattoo, the magic tingling in his mouth. He hates his own tattoo, tries to pretend it doesn’t exist, but on Eliot it’s so fucking hot and Quentin has no idea why.

“Yeah?” Eliot gasps. “You thought about fucking me? I’ve thought about fucking you. Every goddamn minute of the day,” Eliot says, pushing back into Quentin with every thrust. “ _Harder_ ,” he demands. “Fuck me harder.” Quentin nearly sobs as he grips Eliot’s shoulder with his other hand, using it to pull Eliot’s body against him with every thrust. Eliot collapses to his elbows, and sweat drips down Quentin’s brow. The bed moves and creaks as he pulls Eliot’s ass against his hips again and again.

Something is burning, incinerating inside Quentin, a tornado of flame threatening to spin out of control. He’s usually careful, in control when he’s with someone, but with Eliot, all he wants is to _move_ and _fuck_ and _bury himself_ inside Eliot, so deep he’ll never fucking crawl out. He’s spent his life hitting walls, bouncing in whatever direction they sent him in, with no control over where he’s going. Right now, draped over Eliot’s back, gasping into his skin, Quentin's heart beating so hard it’s going to break his bones, he’s never felt so fucking _free_ with someone before, so out of control but somehow still so peaceful. The feverish euphoria of being inside him, the chaotic bliss of being so _close_ to Eliot and knowing he’s right there with him brings Quentin a kind of peace that he never thought he'd find in his lifetime.

It’s not long before Quentin can feel that familiar tension gathering in his thighs, the heady swell of his balls, and he stands taller on his knees, forcing Eliot to spread his thighs and sink down as Quentin bears down, snapping his hips and fucking into him. It’s a little more difficult to get leverage to thrust this way, but Eliot’s garbled moans and gasps take on a higher pitch. He starts pushing back harder against Quentin, and Quentin reaches the hand on Eliot’s hip down to his cock, to jerk him off.

Eliot cries out, fully collapsing onto the bed and bats Quentin’s hand away to take over. “Quentin,” he gasps out, and hearing his name on Eliot’s lips, in his voice in such a whispered, frenzied way sends Quentin nearly over the edge. He grabs Eliot’s hips with both hands and drives into him as hard as he can.

Only seconds later Quentin feels the clamp of Eliot’s orgasm around his dick, hears Eliot cry out in a strangled sob, and Quentin tumbles down after him, bent over Eliot’s back as he comes inside him.

Quentin’s not sure how much time passes as he’s collapsed over Eliot; it could be seconds or minutes, but he feels boneless and wrung out when he pushes his sweaty hair back and pulls himself up. He winces as he pulls out, Eliot groaning as Quentin collapses on the bed next to him.

Quentin stares at his blank ceiling, hoping to keep the blissful haze surrounding him as long as possible. _Whatever happens_ , _totally fucking worth it_ , he thinks. Eliot is breathing hard next to him, and then he feels tentative fingers touching his hand. Quentin quickly grasps them, slotting their fingers together and squeezing. He turns to look at Eliot, and, unsurprisingly, discovers that no one wears the ‘just fucked’ look as good as Eliot does.

His face is pink, smiling, practically fucking glowing as he meets Quentin’s eyes. It’s infectious, and Quentin can’t help but smile back, can’t resist leaning over and brushing his lips against Eliot’s.

“Hey,” Quentin says, his thighs still quivering as his eyes close and he breathes in deeply, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Hey,” Eliot says back, rolling in closer and kissing Quentin’s neck. “Move over, this wet spot is only getting wetter.”

Quentin obliges, scooching over to the farther side of the bed, Eliot following next to him. Eliot's stomach is streaked with come, and Quentin quickly tuts it away.

“So,” Eliot says, propping his head on one elbow, “I'm never going to learn anything in your class ever again. I’m sorry, but every time you talk I’ll be thinking about your mouth. And your cock. And the things they did to me tonight.”

Quentin smiles, casting his eyes down Eliot’s naked body. It’s supremely unfair to be as gorgeous when you’re naked as you are when you’re fully dressed. “That’s okay; you already passed the oral. I’ll give you another shot at the practical if you need it.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “You weren't kidding about ‘much stamina.’” His hand reaches out to idly caress Quentin’s chest, scritch at the wiry hair there. “That was impressive.” The look on his face indicates that Quentin should be supremely thankful for this praise.

Instead, Quentin’s brow furrows in confusion. “Thanks?” It _is_ something Quentin is proud of, but he didn’t remember ever mentioning that to Eliot…

Eliot senses his confusion, and he gives Quentin a cheeky smile. “It’s on your Grindr profile.” Quentin freezes. _Oh shit._ “‘Much stamina,’” Eliot continues. “With a little winky face after. Very intriguing.”

Quentin’s eyes are darting between Eliot and the ceiling. “When did you…”

“Months ago, over the summer,” Eliot says, apparently enjoying Quentin’s impending heart attack. “You must have been nearby when I was staying at Margo’s apartment. Said you were only minutes away.”

He should have figured Eliot would see him on there—he’d seen Eliot on the app himself, even if only once. He can’t even remember what he put on his fucking profile. He’s trying to figure out if he should be upset, worried, embarrassed, or all of the above about Eliot finding his profile when a finger pokes into his side. He turns back to Eliot, who is apparently nowhere near done talking about this.

“So,” he starts, his eyes roving up and down Quentin’s body, “It says you’re... _versatile_.” Ok, embarrassed. Embarrassed is the correct emotion for this conversation. “I was just curious about that.” Quentin knows his face is flaming red, as Eliot pokes him again in the ribs, the poke immediately turning into a smooth caress. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

Quentin finally gives in to laughter and runs a hand down his face, looking between Eliot and ceiling. Sex with Eliot was everything he thought it would be and so much more—intense, mind-blowing, and fucking _fun_. He can't remember the last time he laughed so much while in bed with someone. He likes it. A lot.

“I am,” he says to Eliot, “ _Very_ versatile. And I would love to show your ridiculous cock how flexible I can be.” He turns on his side, leans in and kisses Eliot. It’s slow and sweet, sending renewed chills down Quentin's body, all the way to his toes. He pulls away slowly, reaching a hand up to Eliot’s chest, roaming over to his shoulder, down his arm. The next time he sees Eliot he won’t be allowed to touch him, so he has to get all he can in right now. “I take it you are _versatile_ as well?”

Eliot runs his hand down Quentin’s side, to rest on his ass. It’s a possessive touch, and Quentin relishes the feel of his hand there, wishes Eliot would squeeze it, dig his nails in. “Not as much as you are, I think,” Eliot says carefully. “I usually top. But with the right person… I’m open to anything.” His words are weighted. Heavy. Quentin can feel Eliot waiting for a reaction.

Quentin clears his throat. His chest feels tight. He’s not sure where Eliot is, what he’s thinking. And he’s not sure he should hear it right now. That clarity he’d felt when he was wrapped around, inside Eliot, is gone now, being quickly replaced by a familiar anxiety. Worry. He wants… it doesn’t matter what he wants. He'd told Eliot that, that night at the bar...

_It matters to me._

Responses run through his mind. _I’m glad I’m the right person—I’m open to anything with you, too—You’re the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire life; will you run away with me to California where we can fuck on the beach; I know a spell where the sand won’t get crammed into every crevice._

Instead, he just leans and kisses Eliot, soft and chaste. When he pulls away, he says, “So I guess we have class in a few hours.” He’s an asshole. A _huge fucking asshole_. But he feels like something is clawing at him from within, trying to crawl out through his skin, sending cold tingles spreading all over his body. He's already playing with fire. He's going to get burned. He just has to try to control how badly.

Eliot smiles at him, but Quentin can see the light dim in his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees, turning over onto his back. “I still have to hike back to the cottage.”

Quentin feels a stab in his gut—all he wants is for Eliot to spend the night here. In his bed. Tangle their bodies together during the night, wake up next to each other. What does Eliot look like in the morning sun? Does he have morning breath? What does his bed head look like? Completely gorgeous, Quentin is sure.

But that will never happen. He can have his fantasy for a few hours on nights like the. A few minutes in his office. But never more than that.

Eliot sits up, moving over to the side of the bed and setting his feet to the floor. Quentin gets another full view of his tattoo, and his heart clenches in his chest.

Eliot grabs his clothes and uses the bathroom while Quentin slowly climbs off the bed and gets dressed. He should have known Eliot would have a tattoo; the parting gift for surviving an insane semester in Antarctica and your first year of magic school. He just hadn't thought about it. He's tried to forget his own, making sure to avoid any angles in the mirror that may allow him to catch a glimpse of it.

An impossible task, considering his dreams and memories will never let him forget.

When Eliot comes out of the bathroom, he has a relaxed look on his face, a pleasant smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Quentin helps Eliot pack up the miniature bar he’d brought over. Eliot insists on leaving the vodka, though—“Please drink that instead of that horrible whiskey. I’ll get you better whiskey—that crap is poison.”

They’re standing at the door to his room, about to go down to the back door when Eliot turns to him. He hesitates a moment, staring down at Quentin. “When can I see you again?”

Quentin looks back at him; his heart feels like an iron weight, like if he was dropped into the ocean it would drag him straight to the bottom. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s not safe for you to come here too often—even if Penny isn’t around, we’re just asking to get caught. Same with my office. And I can’t come to you, so… we’ll just have to figure it out as we go.”

Eliot nods, swallowing, looking away. Quentin feels like he's being torn in two—part of him, the part that's pacing up and down the floor, hands pulling at his hair so hard that strands are falling to the floor, is sternly telling him that this has gone _way_ too far and he needs to end this _now_. The other half, the one that's lying on a bed smoking a cigarette, is telling him that it's way too late for that. You're in this. Enjoy it until it all blows up in your face.

Quentin can't stand that look on Eliot's face, and he grabs his hand, pulls him close. “I wanna see you again,” Quentin says, his voice low. “I _will_ see you again. It just might not be as often as we want.”

“Yeah. I get it,” Eliot says, and Quentin pushes up to kiss him. It’s deep, heated for a good night kiss. But he’s not sure how long it may need to last them.

They walk quietly through the dark hallways, Quentin opening the back door for Eliot. “I’ll see you in a few hours?” Quentin asks, stepping out into the night with Eliot, leaving the back door open while they step out of the shine of the porch light.

Eliot nods, adopting a serious face as he looks down at Quentin. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he says. Then he breaks into a grin. “Get some sleep, Professor. Don’t want you showing up late to class.”

Because Quentin has no willpower when it comes to Eliot, especially if he’s going to fucking quote Shakespeare, he reaches up and pulls him in for one last kiss. “Text me when you get to the cottage,” he says.

Eliot smiles back at him, nods. And then he slips off into the darkness.

Quentin heads back up to his room, where he strips, and crawls into bed. He doesn’t change his sheets. They smell like Eliot—his musky cologne, his sweat, his come. Quentin lays there, inhaling into his pillowcase like some teenager with a crush when his phone buzzes with a text.

_Made it back just fine. Not a soul to see me._

Quentin texts back— _Good._ Then, _I had a great time tonight._

Seconds later, he gets a reply. _As did I. Looking forward to learning more about your versatility. ;)_

And a few seconds later - _I shall say goodnight, till it be morrow._

A smile tugs at Quentin’s lips, even as his heart grows heavy. He replies - _You know ‘Romeo & Juliet’ is a tragedy, right? Like, everyone dies at the end. _

A minute later, a response comes through— _We’re at Brakebills. Our odds of survival are already cut in half; may as well embrace the poetry._

Quentin smiles and puts his phone back on his desk. His smile fades as he stares into the darkness. He’s already had one tragedy in his life. Why is he so determined to walk right into another?

He turns his head into his pillow and takes another deep inhale, closing his eyes.

Hopefully he’ll be too tired to dream tonight.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 7: Section 5.1 - Common Characteristics of those that are Completely Fucking Enamoured and their Subsequent Refusal to Acknowledge


	7. Section 5.1 - Common Characteristics of those that are Completely Fucking Enamored and their Subsequent Refusal to Acknowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to Hoko and Aud for their beta work, and AmbiguousPenny for their artistic contributions.

_Eliot_

“I swear to God Eliot, you check that phone _one more fucking time_ and I’m shoving it up your asshole.”

Eliot arches an eyebrow at Margo as his hand, halfway through pulling his phone out of his back pocket, stills. Then, attempting to maintain eye contact with her delightfully fiery stare, which is difficult because she’s kind of swirling in front of him, he pulls it out and makes a show of unlocking it and flipping through his messages.

Which are empty. Just like they have been all day. But that’s fine, Margo doesn’t need to know that.

“He hasn’t fucking texted you. If he texts you, you will know it because you spelled that phone to vibrate so hard it gets me off from across the goddamn room. Get your ass out on the motherfucking dance floor and dance. Because this cock-whipped ‘drinking away my sorrows because my illegal secret boyfriend is unavailable’ bullshit is really killing my high.” And then Eliot finds himself being dragged out from behind his makeshift bar and onto the makeshift dance floor, where half the student body is thumping and gyrating. He stops Margo just before she yanks him through the sound ward, where the music will be so loud they won’t be able to hear themselves think, let alone talk.

“Can you not talk about the ‘illegal secret boyfriend’ so loudly, please? And he's _not_ my boyfriend,” Eliot slurs in Margo’s ear as he stumbles over his own feet. He’s only had four—five? Six? Drinks, and some pill that Josh handed over with a smile, promising the most ‘pure, incandescent high with a smidge of euphoria and just a dash of hallucination.’ Eliot had popped it directly in his mouth, and while he’s definitely high, he’s not feeling particularly pure. Or incandescent. Definitely not euphoric. And he hasn’t had a single hallucination. That he knows of.

Margo gives him one last insufferable look and then Eliot is blasted with dance music as she pulls him through the ward. He looks at the colorful lights bobbing around the ceiling, throws his hands up, and tries to forget that he hasn’t seen or heard from Quentin in two days. Because it’s a _stupid_ thing to be upset about.

Quentin isn’t his _boyfriend_. He’s his _professor_. His professor that fucked him so hard he was sore for two days after. That he thinks about every fucking second of the day. That he dreams about. Who’s whispered filthy things into his ear almost every night for the past week. That he’s only touched twice in his life and he’s going to go batshit insane if he doesn’t get his hands on him again soon. Quentin doesn’t _owe_ him anything.

But a text would be nice.

It’s been two weeks since he snuck across campus and into Quentin’s bedroom. Two weeks since he’d come stumbling back to the cottage, somewhere between dazed and stunned, legs still shaking, Quentin’s come leaking down the back of his thigh. He’d told Quentin he usually tops, and that’s true, but he’d happily change his preference on his dating apps if he could get fucked like _that_ every time. Eliot had never come so hard in his life. He had entertained the thought Quentin’s dick might actually be magic. He can still feel Quentin’s teeth biting down his back, his palm digging into Eliot’s hip as he whispers filthy things into his ear—telling Eliot he’s so good, so fucking _tight_ , that he’d thought about fucking him since the first time he saw him.

Eliot’s had plenty of good sex in his lifetime. But never has the dick been so good that he’s still thinking about it two weeks later. He has to stop himself from texting Quentin hourly, from dropping by his office, from staying after class ‘for a quick chat’ that is _only_ about the homework and _not_ about getting naked. It’s disconcerting how much Quentin has gotten to him. Correction, how much Quentin’s _cock_ and _hands_ and _filthy fucking vocabulary_ have gotten to him.

Because that’s all it is. Physical. They’ll fuck, they’ll get tired of each other, and this… _thing_ will fizzle out, probably just in time for next semester when Eliot will no longer be Quentin’s student, and that will be that. Quentin is a shooting star in Eliot’s life, brilliant and smoldering and fleeting, and he’ll burn up as soon as Eliot opens his eyes wide enough to see him clearly. Maybe that’s already happened, and that’s why Eliot hasn’t heard from him since Wednesday. He got what he needed, and now he’s ghosting.

The thought sends a sharp stab through Eliot’s gut, makes him feel like his blood has turned to ice.

Here on the dance floor though, after putting enough drugs and alcohol in his body to melt any frost in his veins, he feels good. He doesn’t have to think while he gets lost in the thumping rhythm of music and sweats under the strobe lights. He just has to move, and it feels good until it doesn’t, when the room starts to tilt violently. Margo is occupied with someone, or a few someones, really, grinding and rolling her body, and Eliot takes the chance to escape. It’s late, and he’s spent enough time dancing that he can call it a night without hearing too much about it from her the next day.

He stumbles toward the kitchen for a bottle of water, and then manages to make it up the stairs to his room in the attic without killing himself. He shuts the door, kicking his shoes to the floor before falling back onto his bed.

The ceiling is moving, slanting, and he closes his eyes, which doesn’t fucking help; he still feels like he's onboard a boat in a violent sea. He slowly pushes himself up to sitting and guzzles down half his water bottle. Setting it and his phone on his nightstand, he grabs the small jar of blue liquid he’d left there before going down to the party. Another of Josh’s creations (or maybe he just makes bank off the recipe), it will get rid of the slur in his voice and the stumble in his step while still letting him ride the inner bliss that comes with the total ignorance of your problems that only drugs and liquor (and fucking) can provide. He downs it, and in only a few minutes the lights in his room stop streaking and he feels like he can make it to the bathroom without falling flat on his face.

He takes a piss and strips, changing his underwear and putting on his favorite robe. Black and gold silk, he ties it before laying back on his bed and lighting a cigarette. He stares into space for a few moments, enjoying the burn of the smoke in his lungs. And then, because he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment, grabs his phone. No new alerts, which, what does he expect, for Quentin to text him at 1:30AM on a Friday night, saying… _I have some questions about your last exam, I need to see you in my office ASAP? I need to rearrange my office, and only your telekinesis will get the job done? I’m horny, wanna fuck? I miss your cock? I miss you?_

Eliot thumps his head back against his gold, slotted bed frame, shaking the entire bed. He doesn’t miss _Quentin_. He misses _sex_ , that’s all. The sensation of sweat-slick skin sliding against his own, the delirium of letting someone inside him for the first time, allowing them to explore every crevice of his body, to discover what makes him shudder and cry out. Quentin’s thick cock stroking at just the right angle to send electricity through every limb, to every strand of hair on his head, his fingers tangling in the bedsheets, nearly shredding them as he presses back against every stroke, a primal urge for Quentin to drive _deeper_ , _harder_ , centering right on his dick as Quentin drove him to his second orgasm of the night. That fucking tight, compact little body wrapped around his, nails digging into his shoulder as Quentin pulled him back against his hips, fucked him until Eliot swore could feel Quentin’s cock in his throat. And _fuck_ , now he’s half-hard in the middle of the night, alone in his bedroom, fucking pining for the one man he shouldn’t be thinking about. No, the sex. _Sexual_ pining. _That’s it_.

He’d asked Quentin that night when they could see each other again. It had been terrifying, uttering those six little words. Quentin had just been inside him, had railed him within an inch of his life, but asking that question left Eliot feeling more vulnerable than he had in over a year. Akin to when he and Margo had been bound and naked at Brakebills South, forced to confess their deepest secrets. Petrified, split open, utterly defenseless. His heart had sunk when Quentin had said he didn’t know… and then floated back to life when Quentin had grabbed his hands and said, “I _will_ see you again.”

For the first time in a long while, Eliot isn’t sure what his next move is with a guy. Hell, Mike was the only guy since he'd started at Brakebills who got a repeat trip on the Eliot Waugh Ferris Wheel of Sensual Desire. And with how much Quentin was risking, Eliot thought it was best Quentin set the pace for their… relationship.

And for Quentin, that pace was fucking _slow_. Nearly a week had passed before Quentin texted him again after that night in his room. Eliot was _this_ close to just throwing it all out the window and sending an unsolicited dick pic. They’d seen each other in class during the week, but with finals approaching, and seemingly every student suddenly realizing that Minor Mending required actual studying, they only got a few minutes together Quentin before was bombarded by nervous students with a thousand questions. They'd been unable to do more than subtly eye-fuck each other while Eliot made up random questions about proper hand positioning and material composition.

The day Quentin had finally reached out, Eliot had seen him in class earlier; they’d been working on cooperative casting. Eliot partnered with Margo, and they managed to mend the broken coffeemaker from the faculty lounge without humping each other. Apparently cooperative magic only made Eliot horny when he was doing it with Quentin. Which tracked; Quentin was already throwing Eliot’s entire world off kilter; why wouldn’t he toss a little chaos into his magic as well?

Eliot scrolls back through his text thread with Quentin, reading all the messages they’ve exchanged. They’d sent so many over the past week and even had a few phone calls, but that first exchange is the one he goes back to the most. He leans back in bed, loosening the belt on his robe as he reads through. He’d been in this same bed that night, also in a robe and underwear, attempting to study before bed.

~~~

_One Week Ago_

_Quentin [11:01pm]_

_Nice job with the cooperative mending today. Can tell you’ve been practicing._

Eliot’s heart jumps to his throat, and he shoots up in bed. _It’s happening; it’s happening._ He quickly taps out a response, not giving a shit about appearing too eager.

_Eliot [11:01pm]_

_Thank you. I’ll admit, I was a little worried how that would go, with the last experience I had with cooperative casting. ;)_

_Quentin [11:02pm]_

_LOL. Yeah, that was a… unique situation. I’ve never had a cooperative cast go that… way before._

_Eliot [11:03pm]_

_The way of nearly having sex on top of a piano? Yeah, it was a first for me too._

There’s silence for a few minutes, Eliot staring at his phone in his hand, his heart drumming loudly in his chest. The little ellipsis will pop up, showing that Quentin is writing a reply, and then it’ll disappear. What is he writing and deleting?

It’s ridiculous, getting this excited over a few texts. But he can’t help it; Quentin just has this ability to make Eliot forget every rule he’s ever made about dating. _Fucking_. About _fucking_. And that is absolutely what Eliot is aiming for—the shortest path back into Quentin’s bed. And if sexting is the first step, then by god, he’s ready to take it.

_Quentin [11:06pm]_

_What are you up to tonight?_

Okay. After three minutes of staring at his phone and waiting for whatever novel Quentin had apparently written and deleted, it’s clear Eliot is going to have to take the lead. That’s fine; Quentin opened the door, and Eliot is more than happy to guide him through it. After thinking a moment, Eliot sends a response.

_Eliot [11:07pm]_

_Not much. Astronomy homework, brushing up on my Shakespeare, fantasizing about fucking you until you’re inchoherent, organizing my closet. You know, the usual._

This time the telltale “...” hardly has time to appear on his screen before a reply pops up.

_Quentin [11:07pm]_

_You’re taking Astronomy?_

Eliot frowns. _For fuck’s sake, Quentin._

_Eliot [11:08pm]_

_… yes. Not really what I thought you’d zero in on that list._

_Quentin [11:08pm]_

_:) I’ve been thinking about that too._

_Eliot [11:08pm]_

_My Astronomy homework?_

_Quentin [11:09pm]_

_No, you ass. You naked. All over me._

_Yes_. This is more like it. Eliot reclines back in his bed, his cock already starting to firm up against his thigh. He reaches inside his boxers, strokes his dick from base to tip, letting the memories of his nights with Quentin wash over him. Their first kiss alongside a busy street. Their second one, in Quentin’s office...which led to a few more firsts.

_Eliot [11:09pm]_

_Yeah? I like the sound of that. Tell me more._

_Quentin [11:09pm]_

_I think about your cock. It’s so fucking big. I wanna ride it until I come and then suck it until you come down my throat._

_Jesus_. Someone's ready to go. _Yes, please_. The memory that flashes in Eliot’s mind, of Quentin’s lips wrapped around his dick, face flushed, eyes closed as he sucks on Eliot’s cock like his life depends on it, is more than enough to make him grow fully hard. He smiles at his phone as he responds, typing while he shoves his boxers down his legs, kicking them off. He does have to set down his phone to grab lube from his nightstand, squeezing it into one hand. He wraps his slick fingers around his cock, picking up his phone with his other hand.

_Eliot [11:10pm]_

_Fuck yes. God I’m so hard just thinking about it. Thinking about you bouncing on my dick. You touching yourself baby? Tell me._

_Quentin [11:11pm]_

_I’d rather show you._

_If you want._

Eliot can’t stop the guttural noise that escapes his mouth, and he pumps his fist faster over his cock. It feels good, but nothing is as good as Quentin’s lips or hands.

_Eliot [11:11pm]_

_I want. My Grindr profile absolutely accepts NSFW pics, just like yours. :D_

_Quentin [11:11pm]_

_OMG how do you even remember that?_

_Eliot [11:12pm]_

_I remember the important things. Come on. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours._

He only has to wait a minute before a photo arrives, and Quentin’s fully hard cock fills his screen. "Fuck," he whispers, heat swirling in his belly.

Dicks are not objectively pretty, but Quentin has a fucking gorgeous cock. Jutting out between his legs, hard, thick and ready, a small drop of moisture right at the tip. It’s shiny, probably covered in lube just like Eliot’s is. Eliot knows what the head of it feels like pushing between his lips. What it feels like sliding into his body as Quentin's teeth drag down his back. _Fuck_ , just one picture and a few naughty texts are going to make him come in minutes.

_Eliot [11:14pm]_

_Very nice. I remember exactly how that cock felt when you buried it inside me. You fucked me so well. Touch your dick. Stroke it. Tell me how it feels._

_Quentin [11:15pm]_

_So fucking good. Not as good as your mouth. All I have to do is think about you and I get so fucking turned on._

_Come on, you owe me a picture._

Eliot smiles and attempts to arrange his cock so it's artfully displayed against his tastefully groomed thatch of hair, and quickly gives up because his dick is gonna do whatever the fuck it wants, and right now it wants to stand at attention; it wants to fucking _come_. Eliot takes a few pictures and once he's cropped and filtered it so he's satisfied, he goes to send it and finds two more messages from Quentin.

_Quentin [11:19pm]_

_It's just a dick pic Eliot, not the Mona Lisa._

_No need to bust out your ring light._

_Eliot [11:21pm]_

_Hey now. Keep up with that attitude and you might get a spanking._

_Quentin [11:22pm]_

_Fuck. Promise?_

Well then. Eliot files that information away for later use, and sends the picture.

_Eliot [11:22pm]_

_Anything you want, baby. Including this dick._

He doesn’t have to wait long for a response.

_Quentin [11:23pm]_

_Fuck. God you're gorgeous. I want you to fuck me until I scream. I want my mouth on you. In you. I want you so bad. I can’t think about anything else._

Eliot closes his eyes and imagines it. Pushing into Quentin, his tight, wet heat. Eliot knows he’ll take his dick well, like he was born for it. The way Quentin looks at his cock, his mouth watering at the sight of it, like he’s waited years just for the chance to touch it, makes Eliot a little delirious. The heat in his belly is quickly spiraling throughout his entire body, and his muscles tighten as he continues to rut into his hand. Fuck, it’s not Quentin’s hands or mouth or ass, but just imagining it is quickly bringing him to the brink. It’s getting harder to type on his phone, but no way he’s stopping.

_Eliot [11:24pm]_

_Fuck yes. I’m gonna get my tongue my fingrs and this cock inside you. I cant wait to get my hands on you again. I ll make you beg for it. I’m gona come right now thinkng about it._

No reply from Quentin, and Eliot imagines him alone in his bed, the same one they’d fucked in. Pressing his head back into his pillow, biting his lip as he strokes his cock. He gets out another message.

_Eliot [11:25pm]_

_I wish I was there to hear you come. To hear you scream my name._

Five seconds after he’s sent it his phone vibrates again—but not with a text. Quentin is _calling_ him. Eliot nearly drops his phone, his heart stumbling in his chest, his hand stuttering on his cock. He quickly accepts the call, putting it on speaker.

“Quentin?” he says, his voice raspy, one hand holding the phone near his face while the other is wrapped around his still painfully hard dick.

"Are you close?" Eliot’s eyes flutter shut at the low tone of Quentin’s voice, the shudder in his tone, the rhythmic stroking he hears in the background. Quentin’s breath comes hard and heavy over the receiver, and Eliot’s hand starts to move faster over his dick.

“Yes,” he says, laying down and putting the phone next to his face on the pillow. “I’m so fucking close. God, your voice…” _is about to make me come so fast it’s embarrassing_.

“Yeah?” Quentin asks, gasping. “God, _your_ fucking voice. Talk to me. What do you want to do to me?” Quentin grunts, and Eliot can _hear_ him jerking off, can hear the movement of his hand over his cock, obscene noises of skin slapping together and it makes his thighs tighten up, his breath blowing harshly out of his nose as he quickens his pace, twisting his wrist just how he likes it to keep up with Quentin.

“Fuck, baby, next chance I get I’m going to shove you up against the wall and suck your dick. Put my mouth all over you. Open you up. And then fuck you until you’re begging to come. You want that?” Eliot’s eyes are closed as he pictures it in his head—pushing Quentin against the door to his office, or his room, yanking his pants down and feeling his dick harden in Eliot’s mouth. Snapping his hips while he fucks his dick into Quentin.

“Fuck, yes,” Quentin gasps. “I want you to eat me out. I want your cock in me so bad. I want you to fucking rail me so hard I feel it a week later. Filling me up, coming inside me. And then I want you to lick it out of me.” _Good lord_. A breathy stuttering noise is coming through the phone speaker, and Eliot knows he’s about to come. He’s been with Quentin twice, and already he knows what his sex noises sound like.

“ _Goddamn_ , Quentin. I’m so fucking hard, thinking about shoving my dick inside you. You're gonna make me come right now. You wanna come?” Eliot asks, his entire body tightening up like a bow string, toes curling, one hand steady on his dick while the other reaches lowers to press inside. His head is pushing against the pillow as he turns to the phone, as he stretches out Quentin’s name, moans it, rolls it around in his mouth like he wishes he could to Quentin’s balls. “Quentin…”

“ _Eliot_.” He hears Quentin grunt and gasp out his name, and it’s more than enough to send Eliot over the edge, softly laughing and gasping as his orgasm hits, so hard that come spurts up over his stomach and chest. He works himself through it, his legs quivering as they splay out on the bed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He smiles and sighs as he lets go of his softening cock, turning to his phone.

“You still there?” he asks, not sure if Quentin will actually be there or not.

“Yeah,” Quentin answers quickly, and Eliot can hear the same wrung out rasp in his voice that Eliot can hear in his own.

“Well, that was fun,” Eliot says, tutting his chest clean. He eyes the phone warily for a moment. “It’s nice to hear from you. Especially when you call me sounding like that.”

Quentin chuckles. “Yeah, I… I’m a dick.” He sighs, and Eliot can picture him shoving a hand through his hair, like he does in class when he’s frustrated. “I’m sorry I haven’t… I just thought we’d be able to talk after class, and that…” He trails off, and Eliot wishes he could see him. Touch him.

“It’s okay,” Eliot says. “You called. Well, you texted. And then things… escalated.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees. “We’re good at that. Escalating things.”

“We’re good at a lot of things,” Eliot says, smiling. “Feel free to escalate with me anytime. Especially late at night when I’m all alone in my bedroom.”

He hears Quentin chuckle again, although it sounds different than before. Almost like he has something stuck in his throat. “Well, I never know if you’re alone, so…”

Eliot frowns at the phone. Was this why Quentin hadn’t contacted him? He thought he was with other guys? Which, yeah, usually he would be, but it’s impossible to fit anyone else in his head when Quentin takes up all available space. He opens his mouth to respond, but Quentin rushes on. “Are you really taking Astronomy?”

What is his deal with Eliot’s class schedule? “Yes,” Eliot responds, his mind still lagging behind on Quentin’s prior sentence.

“Why?” Quentin asks, drawing out the word. “It’s a first year course.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Yes. I may have… not passed the first year, technically speaking. And I was unable to finish it the second year for…” _getting over killing my boyfriend_ “...personal reasons. So hopefully third time’s the charm.”

There’s a short silence. Eliot has no idea how much Quentin knows about his ‘personal reasons’; he guesses there are probably too many private shitstorms on the Brakebills campus for every faculty member to know everything, but there’s no telling. In any case, Eliot isn’t getting into all that now, hopefully _never_ with Quentin, and he rushes on. “I have a pretty good view of the sky from here in the attic, so it’s easy for me to complete the homework.”

“You’re in the attic bedroom?” Quentin asks. Eliot then hears him take a deep inhale, and a small cough—he must be smoking something. It makes Eliot’s throat itch for a hit. He carries the phone with him as he pulls on his boxers and walks to his dresser to grab his pipe.

“Yep,” Eliot says, opening his party favor box and deciding on a joint instead. “It’s small, but tucked out of the way.” He lights it with his magic, and takes a deep inhale.

“That was my bedroom. When I was in the Cottage.”

Eliot’s eyes jump around his room, like Quentin’s admission may reveal a hidden door or passageway. No such luck—Eliot only sees the same dark wallpaper and white curtains hanging in front of two tiny windows. There’s hardly enough room for his bed, dresser, and magically expanded closet (that was almost a deal-breaker; thank God for planar compression spells). “Really?” he says coughing slightly as he exhales. “That’s… interesting. So you slept in this room.”

Quentin’s laugh comes across the line, free from any apprehension. “I did a _lot_ of things in that room.”

Eliot smiles at his phone, walking back to his bed, setting his phone on the nightstand. “Even more interesting. Tell me a few stories about Quentin Coldwater, aspiring Physical Kid.”

He can hear rustling over the line, like Quentin is settling down in bed. If Eliot closes his eyes, he can imagine Quentin in _his_ bed, nestling in right next to him, their legs tangling under the covers. “What do you want to know?” Quentin asks. His voice is light, and Eliot can picture the slight smile he probably has on his face right now, the same one he wore when Eliot handed him his signature drink.

Eliot tosses his robe to the floor, and slides under his own bedsheets. “Tell me about your exam. How’d you find your way to Brakebills?” He takes another hit off the joint and lays his head on the pillow, letting Quentin’s voice wash over him.

~~~

Eliot sighs, locking his phone and tossing it onto the bed next to him. He can’t hear the party downstairs, thanks to the sound wards on his bedroom, but he knows it’s still raging.

That night, he and Quentin talked well into the early morning. And since then, almost daily texts and late night phone calls. Eliot knows Quentin is from Jersey, his dad died from cancer during his second year of Brakebills, he's not close to his mom, and he has an obsession with nearly all things fantasy, the main culprit being the Fillory books. Eliot had actually fallen asleep mid-Fillory rant a few days ago, somewhere in between tonal consistency and landsharks, whatever the fuck those are. He’d woken up to a dark phone and a few texts from Quentin, telling him that he should get his snoring checked out. Oops.

He’d told Quentin about his undergrad at SUNY Purchase in New York, though he’d avoided any detail pre-college—he just told Quentin he didn’t speak to his family and brushed past it. That wasn’t a rock he’d ever be ready to overturn with Quentin. He and Quentin had side-stepped both of their major tragedies on campus, although Eliot was incredibly curious about the Alice of it all. But he was nowhere near ready to talk about Mike. He certainly wasn’t going to push Quentin on anything he wasn't willing to talk about.

They still haven’t been able to see each other in person again, outside of class. He’d thought for sure they’d find some way to meet over the weekend, but Quentin had told him Penny was staying in the apartments, meaning it wasn’t safe for Eliot to go there again. Eliot had asked Margo if they could use her apartment in the city, but her dad was there, at least until he worked things out from the latest fight he had with Margo’s stepmom. Eliot has his fingers crossed for them; Margo’s dad is as much of a waste of space as his own father, but their successful relationship is the only thing standing between Eliot, a bed, and Quentin Coldwater.

Eliot looks forward to those nightly phone calls. The nightly phone sex. Even over the phone, their chemistry is off the charts. Sometimes they’ll start off talking and work their way into it, sometimes Quentin will call him halfway gone and Eliot will have to catch up. Eliot can tell that Quentin is almost always high or drunk, by the slight slur in his voice or the way his questions kind of float out of his mouth.

But Eliot doesn’t mind. He’s usually blazed himself, although he is smoking and drinking less over the past week than he normally does. Quentin always calls late, so Eliot doesn’t have to make excuses to go up to his bedroom early, although Margo would know why anyway. Every morning she would ask for an update on her ‘stories’, aka ‘The Tortured Romance of Brian and Nigel’ aka ‘Two Idiots That Are Waiting For Everything To Explode in Their Faces’ aka ‘The One Where Eliot Is Gonna Get Hurt and Margo Told Him So.’ Eliot will roll his eyes at her, but Margo knows him too well. After a week of moping and groaning, he’s smiling way too much and staying in his room too many nights for him to just shrug it off. Eliot can see the worry in Margo’s eyes when he mentions something Quentin had told him, or checks his phone and smiles. But Eliot is happy, so Margo is content to let it be.

It’s hard, though. Harder than he expected it to be. Not knowing when he can really see Quentin again. It’s not enough, just talking or texting, or seeing him only in class. Eliot wants Quentin’s hands in his, wants to be able to reach over and tuck his hair behind his ear. He wants to see Quentin’s face flush when he tells Eliot about Jess, the student in his Tuesday class that flirts with him way too brazely (‘Professor Coldwater, maybe I could see you for some private tutoring? I’m busy during the day though, so we’d have to meet at night.’) He wants to know if he frowns when he talks about his parents, if his eyes dart around the room like he’s looking for an opportunity to escape.

But Quentin’s words, from when they stood in front of a freshly-mended piano, always float back to him.

_Eliot, I—I can’t promise you anything._

Eliot knows the deal. So he doesn’t push, and just takes whatever Quentin offers.

He did give in to his overwhelming desire to see Quentin once. The day before, he’d stopped by Quentin’s office, hoping to get a few minutes to talk, kiss, hell, he’d settle for just holding his hand or standing close enough to breathe him in. Anything to soothe this tightness in his chest; sometimes he thinks this must be what it feels like to drown, when he thinks about not seeing, touching Quentin again.

All completely normal feelings to have for your… teacher with benefits.

The door had been ajar a few inches. He’d been about to knock when he heard the deep voice of Dean Fogg from inside the office.

“Quentin, part of being a professor is actually showing up for class.”

Eliot could hear Quentin sigh, and the rustling of papers as he replied, “I know, I know; it won’t happen again.” Eliot had turned on his heel and left the building, having no desire to see Fogg or hear the rest of that conversation.

He’d heard nothing from Quentin since then. They had spoken Wednesday night, and Eliot had texted him Thursday, even called that night, but no response. Since classes were cancelled today, he had no idea if something had happened to Quentin or he just didn’t want to talk to Eliot.

It sucked.

And now he’s alone in his bedroom on a Friday night when he should be tearing up the party downstairs, drinking himself into oblivion. Which, he did almost do that, he still feels floaty, even if he is sobering up by the minute. He’s debating between taking another one of Josh’s pills or just going to sleep when his phone vibrates.

He picks it up and his eyes widen as he sees a text notification—from Quentin. Well, after they started texting so much, he’d named him ‘Brian’ in his phone. After the name of the bookstore in the background of his gorgeous, sunny profile picture, so no one would see ‘Quentin’ on his phone and connect all the dots.

_Quentin [1:56am]_

_U up?_

Hrm. Short, abbreviations, nearly 2AM. This has drunken booty call written all over it. _Nice_.

_Eliot [1:56am]_

_Yes. Are you?_

_Quentin [1:57am]_

_Duh. In ur room? At the party?_

_Eliot [1:57am]_

_In my room..._

_Quentin [1:57am]_

_Come to your window._

Eliot’s heart nearly stops in his chest and his eyes flicker to the two small windows set along one slanted wall. An insane image of Quentin standing outside holding a boom box pops in his brain, and he shakes it off, jumping up and cinching his robe, still holding his phone in his hand. He pushes back the curtains and the glare from his lamp shines on the window, so he can’t actually see out of it. He shoves the window up and sticks his head out, looking around. His windows face the forest that is behind the Cottage, and he only sees darkness and trees. The back patio is just around the corner, and shadows are dancing across the grass from students milling about.

“Hey!” Eliot hears a loud whisper, and he looks directly down to see Quentin grinning up at him from the side of the cottage.

Eliot’s mouth drops into a surprised smile, and then quickly melts into a worried expression. He’s sober enough to know this is really fucking stupid.

He’s also drunk enough to be ridiculously happy to see him.

Eliot glances back towards the corner of the house, at the flickering light on the grass from the patio lights. “Quentin!” he stage whispers, “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been studying,” Quentin says, taking a step back from the side of the Cottage, stumbling. Fuck. He’s trashed. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”

Eliot can’t contain his laughter at that, even as he glances worriedly across the lawn. There’s no need for someone to come over to this side of the house, but Quentin isn’t exactly being quiet as he slurs Shakespeare at Eliot’s window. Which, yeah, it’s adorable as fuck. But Eliot doesn’t think Quentin will think it’s adorable when he sobers up.

“Quentin—just wait there.” Shit. There’s no way he can really get out of the house unseen, not with the crowd still down there. He can probably blend in though, he just needs to get dressed—or maybe he can float Quentin up to his window? He’s never really tried that, and it’s probably a really bad idea because he is not as sober as he feels, but what the fuck else can he—

“Can’t you just let down your hair?” Quentin says, one hand sliding over the side of the Cottage, like he’s feeling for something as he tilts his head back to look up at Eliot. He’s still smiling widely. _At least he’s having fun before he ruins his career_ , Eliot thinks.

“That’s—that’s Rapunzel?” Eliot says, still not fully comprehending that his drunk professor/fuck buddy/imminent-disaster is drunk, on his lawn, quoting Shakespeare and… children’s fairy tales at him. “That’s Disney, not Shakespeare.”

“It’s Brothers Grimm, actually,” Quentin says with a smirk. “Can I come up?”

Eliot gapes down at him. “The Cottage is packed; how are you gonna get up here without anyone seeing?”

“Oh, I’ll go in the side,” Quentin says. He focuses on the wall of the Cottage, and then appears to be counting as he slides his hand over from the corner. “Got it!”

Eliot leans out the window, trying to see what Quentin is doing, muttering to himself. “The side? What the fuck?” Then, louder, “Quentin!”

Quentin isn’t paying him any mind, and as Eliot watches, Quentin moves his hand in a motion similar to a Czechoslovakian Unlocking Charm. The wall in front of Quentin appears to shimmer, and Eliot’s eyes widen as Quentin shoves on the wall. A door that Eliot knows doesn’t fucking exist opens. Quentin looks up at him, gives a small wave, and disappears through the door. It shuts behind him without a sound and smoothly becomes part of the outer wall of the Cottage again, with no evidence it ever existed in the first place.

“What the shit?” he says. Then he ducks back into his room and opens his bedroom door, cinching his robe tighter as he descends down the narrow stairs that lead up to the attic. He's just about to push through the beaded curtain that he’d hung up at the bottom of the stairs when the door to the linen closet opens, just a few feet away, and Quentin steps out into the hallway.

He stops short and reaches a hand out, pushing the wooden, stringed beads aside. Quentin is standing in his hallway, wearing jeans, a long sleeved henley, and his black leather jacket. He turns, and Eliot swears that as they lock eyes, the lights dim around them. They stare at each other for a moment, that same familiar string snapping between them, sparking and flaring, sending goosebumps over Eliot’s skin.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Eliot asks, a small smile forming on his face.

“Magic,” Quentin replies. Then he crosses the few steps between them and pulls Eliot into a kiss.

 _Fuck_ , Eliot feels like he can finally breathe after being held underwater for two days. Quentin tastes like bourbon and cloves, his lips are cold, but his fingers are warm as they pull at the tie of Eliot’s robe and slide over the skin of his waist, his back. They kiss hungrily, pouring two weeks worth of pining, yearning, and frustration into their embrace. Eliot threads a hand through Quentin’s hair, and he’s pushing Quentin backwards against the wall when the sound of footsteps coming up the nearby stairs pulls him out of the Quentin-induced fog he’d been happily settling into.

“Come on,” Eliot says, tugging Quentin up the stairs to his room. Eliot locks the door behind them, and he turns to see Quentin taking off his jacket, looking around the room.

“It’s bigger than I remember,” Quentin says, turning back to Eliot. His eyes are dark, bloodshot. Hungry. “I like your robe.” He steps closer to Eliot, pushes up to kiss him.

Eliot lets him; it’s so good to touch him again, to grip the back of Quentin’s neck, push his tongue between Quentin’s lips, slide a thigh between his legs. “Thanks… it’s silk,” Eliot says, his voice already raspy.

“Of course it is,” Quentin chuckles. A small noise of pleasure escapes Eliot’s throat, and Quentin kisses down his jaw, running one hand down Eliot’s throat, his collarbone, carding through his chest hair. “I missed you,” Quentin whispers into Eliot’s neck, leaning into him, pressing his nose against Eliot’s skin and _inhaling_ like Eliot’s scent is the antidote to some poison swirling through his veins.

Eliot’s eyes flutter shut, contentment flowing through his limbs, making him feel heavy and light all at the same time. Then Quentin sags against him, so hard Eliot nearly stumbles backwards, and the sharp stench of liquor pierces the decadent haze he’s been soaking up ever since Quentin stepped into his hallway. And he remembers—he hasn’t heard from Quentin in two days. He can’t just appear, drunk, high, whatever, out of the blue, making sexy magic doors into his room, saying he misses Eliot and then just expect Eliot to…

Quentin pulls him into another sloppy kiss, and Eliot finds it slightly easier to gently push him away. He keeps one arm wrapped around Quentin’s waist and he peers down at him, cold air wafting in through his still-open window. “You’re drunk.”

“So drunk,” Quentin says, the slur in his voice more pronounced. “But so are you.” Then he looks harder at Eliot. “Aren’t you?”

Eliot sighs. “Technically, yes, probably. Come on, I have something for that.”

Quentin lets Eliot guide him to his bed, and he takes the blue vial that Eliot pulls out of his nightstand. He looks at it warily, and then at Eliot. “It’ll sober you up. You won’t feel it as much, anyway.”

Quentin frowns at the vial. “The whole point is to not be sober.” But he tips his head back and pours the contents down his throat as Eliot watches, worry creeping up his chest. Eliot gets up, tying his robe again, and closes his window as he decides what to say next.

Quentin is _here_ , in his room, on his bed, and part of Eliot wants nothing more than to get him naked and have their phone conversations in person. The other half is thinking about when he blew Quentin in his office, and got shoved out on his ass for his trouble. When Quentin fucked him in his room, and then disappeared for another week. A week of really fucking hot phone sex, and then nothing for two days. Which, fine, maybe Eliot’s cling factor is approaching the level of a boa constrictor, and that makes him want to vomit, but this constant whiplash is wearing him out. Is Quentin here, tonight, only to be gone for a month tomorrow?

Eliot takes the empty vial from Quentin, setting it on his nightstand as he sits on the bed, scooching his back against the headboard, his legs stretching out behind where Quentin sits on the edge of the bed. Quentin looks at him, his gaze still heated; it feels like embers are smoldering on Eliot’s skin everywhere Quentin’s eyes trace. Quentin turns towards Eliot, folds a leg up on the bed and reaches one hand out, sliding it up Eliot’s shin. Already Quentin’s fingers seem steadier, his eyes clearer; the potion is wiping away the alcoholic haze and revealing the Quentin that Eliot knows.

At least, the one he thinks he knows.

Silence hangs over them as Quentin’s thumb moves back and forth over Eliot’s knee. Tendrils of heat radiate out from his touch, straight to Eliot’s cock. Eliot licks his lips and tries not to give in to the urge to slide Quentin’s hand straight up to his dick. When Quentin speaks, it almost startles him.

“Sorry I wasn’t around the past couple of days. I… got into it with Henry and then went to Julia’s and forgot my phone. Then stuck in training all day today...” Quentin is watching his hand trail down Eliot’s shin, fingers caressing the delicate bones of his ankle, and Eliot forces down the groan of protest that he’s moving it in the wrong direction.

“What did you get into it with Fogg about?” Eliot asks, a thread of panic in his chest. He’d heard part of that conversation, but not all. If somehow Fogg knew, surely Quentin wouldn’t be here right now? Or maybe that’s why he got so drunk, it was the only way he could see Eliot, to tell him they couldn’t do this anymore.

Quentin smirks, shifting further up the bed towards Eliot, his hand still skimming over Eliot’s leg, and fuck, there is nowhere on his body Quentin can touch that doesn’t suddenly flame up into an erogenous zone.

“Cancelling classes… dress code… ‘professional decorum,’” Quentin says, imitating the dean’s low register and ornate pronunciation. “Guess I have to invest in more suit jackets and slacks.” Relief flows through Eliot, followed by a wave of heat. The thought of Quentin in a business suit that fits, maybe dark colors with a tie… or no tie, but suspenders, with the first few buttons open on his shirt, his hair pulled back in a low bun, just enough strands framing his face for Eliot to push behind his ears…

Quentin's hand is back to Eliot’s knee, pausing, wrapping his fingers under it as his thumb swipes over Eliot’s kneecap. Eliot can’t stop from bending his leg under Quentin’s ministrations, nudging closer so Quentin can get his full palm on the underside, his hand sliding up just an inch or two so he’s touching Eliot’s lower thigh.

Eliot clears his throat; his tongue should be used to form words right now and not shoved down Quentin’s throat. “I can help you with that,” he says, his voice much lower than he intends it to be.

“Oh yeah?” Quentin says, moving closer on the bed so he’s next to Eliot’s thigh instead of his knee. “Gonna take me shopping?” He smiles as he looks at Eliot’s face, though it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Maybe,” Eliot says, shrugging. _Fuck yes._ Then, _Don't get distracted, you're mad at him right now._

The silence comes back, growing thicker by the second, as Quentin’s hand slides further up his inner thigh, pushing under his robe. Eliot’s cock is half-hard against his thigh, and _fuck_ he wants those fingers on him, wrapped around him, inside him, but he also kind of feels like shit, and that’s not going to go away unless he does something about it.

He sits up and reaches down, picking up Quentin’s hand, slotting their fingers together. Quentin watches, swallows as he meets Eliot’s eyes. “But it seems like every time we do something together, you disappear. And I know this… “ He licks his lips and looks down at their joined hands, feels Quentin squeeze his palm. “You don’t owe me anything, we’re not like—” He breaks off, stopping himself before he walks down that road that he’s definitely not supposed to be staring at, wondering what the view looks like at the end. “But I already told you, Quentin, you can’t jerk me around. You can’t… talk to me every night for a week and ghost me and then show up drunk outside my window.” And fuck, what is he doing, whining like some lovesick fool that got _way_ too attached, _way_ too fast? That’s _not_ who he is. Not now, not ever.

Then Quentin is wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, sliding forward on the bed and drawing Eliot’s forehead down to his. Their hands are still clasped as Quentin brings Eliot’s fingers up to his mouth, lays a soft kiss on them. “I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m fucking broken, Eliot. I told you. I’m no good. For anyone.”

“ _I_ told _you_ , that’s bullshit,” Eliot says, running his free hand up Quentin’s forearm, forcing his sleeve up as he tries to wrap his fingers around as much skin as he can. “ _Fuck,_ it’s good to touch you.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“It is,” Quentin half sighs, half groans. “So good.” He presses his lips to Eliot’s, dropping Eliot’s hand so he can have both of his threading into Eliot’s hair. “I’m sorry,” Quentin whispers in between kisses. “I’ll do better. I won’t—I’ll—” He kisses Eliot deeply, thrusting his tongue in his mouth and Eliot melts into him, pulling Quentin against his chest, wrapping his arms around his waist. The worry that’s been pressing against him the past two days slides away, and Eliot shudders as Quentin’s fingers tighten in his hair, as Quentin presses his lips as hard as he can against Eliot’s, like he can imprint his regret in a kiss.

“Fuck it. You’re forgiven,” Eliot says, pulling away and tugging up on Quentin’s shirt. “Now take your clothes off so I can fuck you.” Eliot pulls Quentin’s shirt up and off his arms, Quentin smiling as Eliot tosses it to the floor, his hands moving immediately to the fastening of Quentin’s jeans.

They kiss and peel off their clothes, a quicker process for Eliot, since he was only wearing boxers and his robe. They’re laughing, smiling; they just can’t stop kissing each other, and Eliot feels more drunk now than he did an hour ago. He’s riding the high of Quentin, lightheaded as he nibbles at Quentin’s lips, slides his palm around the soft curve of Quentin’s ass, turns his head to press his lips against the pulse beating frantically in Quentin’s throat.

“I’ve thought about this,” Eliot whispers in Quentin’s ear as he settles his body over Quentin's. A sharp line of heat shoots through his belly as their cocks, already both fully hard, slide together. Eliot reaches down and wraps his hand around both of them, gasping out a breath as he slides his hand up and down their length. “Never thought I’d get you in my bed.”

Quentin presses his head back into the pillow; they’ve hardly even started and his fingers are already clawing down Eliot’s back. “It was my bed first,” he says, then, “ _Fuck_ ,” as Eliot slowly strokes them, the satin heat of Quentin’s cock flush against his own. “Your hands are the best hands.”

Eliot’s chuckle turns into a gasp as Quentin pushes up with his hips, thrusting into Eliot’s fist. They’re both already so hard, leaking enough for Eliot to spread it down their cocks. If he wants to fuck Quentin, which he really, _really_ fucking does, he needs to stop. But this feels so goddamn good, Quentin’s chest against his, his fingers digging into Eliot’s back, groping down to his ass as Eliot holds them together, tight and slick in his hand.

“Do you want to come like this?” Eliot gasps, slowing the speed of his hand. His head is next to Quentin’s, his lips brushing his ear. He traces the outer shell with his tongue, tugs the lower lobe between his teeth.

“N-No,” Quentin rasps, pulling away slightly, turning to look at Eliot. “Will you please fuck me?” he asks, his eyes wild, dark, desperate.

Eliot smiles at him, kisses him. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” He gives one final stroke down the length of their dicks before he releases them, smiling at Quentin’s whimper of protest. He wants to eat Quentin out. Open him up nice and slow, with his tongue and then his fingers, until Quentin is begging for his cock, sobbing to be filled. But that’s not happening tonight. He needs to be inside Quentin _now_ , to know how fucking tight his muscles are around Eliot’s dick as he pushes in for the first time, to slide all the way to the root and not pull out until he’s painted Quentin’s insides with his come.

“I’m going to do a spell,” he says, and Quentin is already nodding, his eyes tracking Eliot’s movements as he pulls away and sits back on the bed. Quentin grabs the pillow next to him and shoves it under his hips as Eliot completes the protection tut. His fingers are shaking slightly, but he moves into the more intricate one, the one that will clean and open up Quentin, with no trouble. Quentin gasps as Eliot traces it over Quentin’s groin, closing his eyes and thinning out his lips as the magic takes effect. Then he looks up at Eliot, all searing eyes and plump lips, his gaze dropping down to Eliot’s cock, heavy between his thighs.

Eliot crawls over him, letting his hips and dick drag over Quentin’s hard cock as he reaches over and grabs the lube from his nightstand. Quentin makes a strangled sound, his hands searching over Eliot’s back, his arms, any skin he can reach as Eliot spreads lube over his cock. He pulls Eliot’s face to his, kissing him sloppily, their noses bumping and teeth clacking together as Eliot reaches down, circling his fingers around Quentin’s hole. He easily pushes in one finger, and then a second, relishing as Quentin’s muscles tighten and relax around him. He slides in a third, and Quentin shouts, curses, squeezing his eyes closed as his fingers dig into Eliot’s skin.

“Ready?” Eliot asks, lightly thrusting with his fingers, scissoring into Quentin's throbbing heat. A thin sheen of sweat has formed on Quentin’s forehead, and he’s biting his lower lip like it’s the only way he can keep from screaming out. He’s so inviting, so goddamn _responsive_ , spread out in front of Eliot, writhing under him like it’s the first time someone’s been inside him, the first time anyone’s arched their fingers so they hit that bundle of nerves that light him on fire.

“ _Yes_ ,” Quentin says immediately. “Please. Fuck me. If you don’t get your cock inside me right now, I’ll…”

Eliot smiles as he withdraws his fingers, adjusting so he can drag the head of his cock over Quentin’s entrance. “You’ll what?” he asks lighty, teasingly.

“I have no fucking idea; please don’t make me think anymore.” Quentin eyes are desperate, pleading, as they lock with Eliots. It’s disarming, how much want Eliot sees there; how much _need_. Eliot nods and lines up, bearing down as the head of his cock slides inside.

Quentin is vocal in bed. Which isn’t shocking to Eliot; more often than not the quiet ones are most worth the effort. But what is surprising is just _how_ vocal, how _vulgar_ he can get. Quentin may stutter in class, but his voice is firm and steady when he tells Eliot how hard he wants to fuck him, how he wants Eliot to hold him down and fuck his face until he chokes on Eliot’s fat cock. But right now, as Eliot tries to hold his shit together as he pushes into the tight, silky heat of Quentin, as he sinks into the delicious pulsating stretch around his dick, only their soft gasps and quick breaths permeate the air. Quentin relaxes into it, accepts Eliot into his body like he’s just an extension of himself. The moment stretching between them is so thin, so delicate it’s as if a word may shatter it entirely.

Eliot slides in another inch and braces himself on his elbows, eyes locked on Quentin’s face as he pushes forward until he’s fully seated. Quentin’s cock is hot and hard against his stomach, and he moans as Eliot leans down and slips his tongue into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin’s hand moves to grab one of Eliot’s, slots their fingers together so that when Eliot bears weight on it, he’s pressing Quentin’s hand into the mattress. Eliot pulls away slightly, looking into Quentin’s eyes, which are less desperate than before, lighter, gazing at Eliot like he’s something wondrous and fascinating, like he’s never seen him before.

Eliot reaches forward and grabs one of the rods of his headboard, using it for leverage as he pulls out slightly, and pushes back in. He can’t stop the loud moan that falls from his lips; Quentin is so fucking _tight_. Liquid lightning is spreading from his cock throughout his entire body, sparking every synapse from head to toe.

He means to go slow, to make this last, but that idea exists for about thirty seconds before he’s fucking Quentin’s mouth with his tongue as he fucks him hard and fast with his dick, Quentin fisting into his hair and clawing at his back. Quentin wraps his legs around him as Eliot snaps his hips, heels digging into Eliot’s ass, dragging his stomach over Quentin’s cock with every thrust.

Quentin turns his head away, gasping for breath and Eliot pulls his hand away from Quentin’s so he can use both to anchor to the headboard. He digs his knees into the bed and fucks Quentin with everything he has, sweat beading on his forehead as he buries his face in Quentin’s neck.

Quentin is definitely vocal now, crying out and cursing as his legs wrap around Eliot’s thighs so his hands can move down to squeeze Eliot’s ass. “Eliot,” Quentin gasps, “You feel so fucking good—so goddamn incredible—better than I imagined, your dick feels like it’s splitting me in half.”

Eliot licks Quentin’s shoulder, his neck, the salt from his sweat dissolving on his tongue. “You’re perfect,” he says into Quentin’s skin. “Taking my dick so well. Like you were made for it.”

He’s not going to last; he can already feel his entire body tensing, drawing up, ready to release, explode, fucking come for days. He tries to slow his movements, but Quentin’s not having it, pulling Eliot in tighter, using his hold on Eliot’s legs to thrust up, to pull Eliot deeper inside him. “Come on, make me come. I’m so close, fuck me until I come on your cock.”

 _As you wish, Professor_. Eliot shakes off Quentin’s hold on his legs and wraps his arms around Quentin, abruptly sitting up and pulling Quentin with him. Quentin grabs Eliot’s back in surprise, and Eliot, his cock still buried deep within Quentin’s ass, lifts his hips and swings his legs around so they’re flat on the bed, with Quentin in his lap.

“Holy shit,” Quentin says, shifting, wrapping his legs around Eliot. “You’re fucking unreal.”

Eliot smiles and leans back on one arm, the other wrapped around Quentin, and bends his knees so he can dig his heels into the bed. Then he pushes his cock into Quentin, thrusting into his sharp heat. The angle seems to work for Quentin, as his moans take on a more fevered pitch, his cock bobbing with every movement.

“Touch yourself,” Eliot tells him, his hand sliding up to clutch at the back of Quentin’s neck, holding his face close. “Make yourself come on my cock,” he hisses, his thighs burning as he keeps a fast pace with his hips.

Quentin reaches down, and it only takes two, three strokes before he’s coming, leaning hard against Eliot as his come spurts over their stomachs. “El,” he gasps out, and Eliot buries his face in Quentin’s neck, bites into his shoulder as he chases his own release.

It only takes a few more strokes and he’s crying out as he comes, Quentin grabbing one of his hands, squeezing as Eliot’s fingers dig into Quentin’s upper back. It feels like the longest orgasm he’s ever had, waves of pleasure cresting from his thighs to his toes, throughout his torso all the way to his scalp, tingling and sparkling beneath his skin. He’s laughing as his grip relaxes, as he caresses Quentin’s sweaty back. He lets himself fall slowly back on the bed, Quentin following, sucking in his breath as he collapses on Eliot’s chest.

They lay there for a minute, their breaths slowing, until Quentin shifts over to lay on Eliot’s side, Eliot exhaling slowly as Quentin pulls off his cock. There’s a wet trail over his thigh; actually his entire body is filthy, covered in sweat and come and saliva. It’s fucking amazing.

“Fuck,” Quentin says, leaning his forehead on Eliot’s shoulder, lightly kissing his collarbone. “That was…”

“That was,” Eliot agrees, letting his hand trail down Quentin’s back. “Two weeks is too long,” he says, closing his eyes as his body relaxes. He’ll feel it tomorrow, in his hips and thighs, picking up Quentin, but it’ll be worth it.

“Way too long,” Quentin says. He picks his head up, smiling; Eliot’s breath catches at the lightness he sees there, the promise. “It won’t happen again.”

Eliot swallows, looking away. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says, and then he sits up. “We need to clean up.”

Quentin looks like he wants to say something, but he lets Eliot spell away the mess without comment. Eliot puts on his underwear and robe, turns to Quentin. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom—wait here.”

Quentin nods, not meeting his eyes and Eliot heads down the stairs. The music is still going downstairs, but quieter—the party is likely winding down. The bathroom is unoccupied and Eliot quickly cleans up. He leans over the sink, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

His lips are swollen, the skin around his mouth red from Quentin’s stubble. His eyes are still slightly bloodshot, his hair way too tousled and messy to be anything other than ‘sex hair.’ A few hickeys are forming on his neck and collarbone, and he lets his robe fall down one shoulder, turns—yep, definite pink scratch marks. He should remind Quentin to trim his nails.

But he won’t.

He likes the burn. The reminder on his body that he made Quentin so crazy he dug his nails in hard enough to nearly tear the skin. And, as he wipes his face, the echo of _“It won’t happen again,”_ in his mind, his chest searing when he thinks, _knows_ it’s a lie—he likes the burn there too. The way being with Quentin, touching him, inhaling him, singes and soothes Eliot all at the same time.

He shakes his head, _get a goddamn grip._ The small hallway is empty as he goes back up to his room. Quentin is in his boxers, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes tired when they flicker over Eliot.

Eliot grabs his other robe, this one a red paisley print. “Come on,” he prompts, and Quentin stands, slips it on. It makes Eliot smile, how big it is on him, sleeves nearly hiding his fingers, reaching all the way to the floor. “Coast is clear.”

“Eliot,” Quentin starts, licking his lips, his eyes darting everywhere but at Eliot. “I’m—”

“I know,” Eliot interrupts. “We can have the emotional catharsis that only comes from experiencing amazing dick _after_ I get you safely in and out of the bathroom.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but follows Eliot, who creeps stealthily down the stairs. The silent effect is negated, though, by Quentin’s quick stomps behind him. Luckily the hallway is clear and Quentin goes in, Eliot hovering in the hallway, wondering how he’ll explain to anyone that wants the bathroom that they can’t use it and they need to just go away for five goddamn minutes.

Luckily the hallway stays deserted, and soon they’re back in Eliot’s bedroom, Eliot pulling a cigarette and two full vials out of his party favor box. He gives one of the vials to Quentin, and keeps one for himself. "For tomorrow's hangover," he says, drinking his.

Quentin nods and drinks it, telling Eliot, "Thank you. I'll replace it; I feel like I'm always drinking your stash."

"What is the point of having extra drugs if not to lure cute professors to my room?" Eliot says lightly, offering a cigarette to Quentin. He takes it with a smile, then goes to shrug out of the robe, but Eliot stops him with a hand on his elbow. “Keep it on?” he asks lightly. Quentin in his clothes, is _doing_ something to Eliot that he’s not quite ready to stop yet. Quentin looks surprised, but doesn’t protest.

Eliot lays on the bed, pulling Quentin down alongside him. He conjures a flame in his hand to light their cigarettes, and closes his eyes as he pulls the smoke into his lungs. It burns just the way he likes it.

“Eliot,” Quentin starts again. “I'm sorry for just—showing up here. It was stupid. Dangerous. I—wasn’t thinking and just wanted to see you and I was really—"

"Drunk," Eliot finishes for him.

"Drunk," Quentin agrees. _You're drunk a lot_ , Eliot thinks, but doesn't say, because who the fuck is he to judge anyone that hides from life behind a bottle or a few pills?

"I know I haven’t—” Eliot looks at him, waiting. “I don’t—” he stops again, frowns. He picks up Eliot’s hand in his, palms together, squeezing, like he’s drawing strength from it. “I, uh… spiral sometimes. My head… gets away from me? When things are too much, or they scare me. And you…” he trails off, taking a drag off the cigarette.

“I scare you?” Eliot asks, dragging his thumb over the heel of Quentin’s hand.

“You fucking terrify me,” Quentin says, smiling ruefully at Eliot, turning to flick his cigarette ash in the ashtray next to the bed. “When I’m with you, when I talk to you, I feel…” his eyes close, like he’s remembering, capturing something in his head, “it’s good. So fucking good. And I don’t—that’s not for me.”

Eliot’s brow furrows as he studies Quentin. He’s staring at their joined hands, face serious. Eliot swipes his thumb over Quentin’s inner wrist, and he can feel Quentin’s pulse, as fast as a hummingbird’s against his fingertip.

Eliot should stop this conversation. Make a joke, brush it off, see if Quentin will let him suck his dick until he gets hard again. You don’t have conversations like this with your… whatever Quentin is to him. But he can’t. His own heart is speeding up, barreling like a freight train heading into a dark tunnel. He has no idea what’s at the end—it could be a warm, welcoming light or a brick wall. But he’s stoking the fire, pushing it faster and faster, until the wheels are screaming against the rails.

“What do you mean?” Eliot asks, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

Quentin inhales, eyes flickering up to Eliot’s face. Quentin's robe has fallen open at the top, revealing his chest, one nipple peeping out. _God_. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. I just… trust me, anything good, I’ll just fuck it up.” His voice is small, weak. Like all of the fight has gone out of him.

Eliot’s voice is soft when he replies. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too, Quentin. It’s highly likely I’ll fuck this up before you even get your chance.”

“Haven’t I already? Fucked this up.” Quentin eyes lock with Eliot’s. The naked vulnerability there, raw and painful, sends a protective flare through Eliot’s chest. How has this man done this, poked at the loose bricks in the wall Eliot has spent years constructing, wiggled through all defenses to get right inside his heart. No one has accomplished that since Margo… and the wall was a lot smaller back then.

“No,” Eliot says, plucking the half-gone cigarette out of Quentin’s hand, dropping it in the ashtray, along with his own. “Whatever _this_ is… you haven’t.” He wraps a hand around Quentin’s neck, pulls him forward into a kiss.

Quentin sighs into his mouth, circles his fingers around Eliot’s wrist. “ _This_ is really important to me,” he whispers. “More than I ever thought it would be.”

Eliot’s mouth is dry, his eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t expect—like, _declarations_. But here they are, and Eliot’s heart is fucking soaring out of his chest, his face stretching into a stupid, traitorous smile. “Me too. It’s important to me, too.” He kisses Quentin again, chastely, softly, feels Quentin’s answering grin against his lips.

Eliot pulls back, his eyes falling to that swath of skin on display. Eliot reaches over, pulls at the tie on Quentin’s (his) robe, watching as it falls further open. “That first night,” Eliot asks, his hand reaching in, palm flat on Quentin’s waist, “When you called me for the first time. You said you never knew if I’d be alone. Do you think I’m seeing other people?”

Quentin’s eyes had fallen shut as Eliot had started touching him, but he opens them now, surprise in his expression. “Well, I mean—I didn’t—we’re not—” he sighs in frustration at himself, turning his face to the ceiling. “I mean, you’ve seen you, right?” He gestures at Eliot, in a way that encompasses him from head to foot. “I see the way people look at you, when… guys talk to you. And I… I might have seen you on Grindr, so I know you’re fine with casual hookups, whatever.”

“Oh really?” Eliot asks, suddenly delighted. “When was _this_? And you didn’t message me?” he asks, smiling.

“No!” Quentin says immediately, his face flushing. Oh, this is just _too much fun_. “It was like, months ago. You’re a _student_!”

“I am?” Eliot says, hand to chest. “That was a good call, because I would _never_ respond to a teacher. It’s against the rules, you know.”

“Fuck off,” Quentin says, smiling, rubbing his palms into his eyes.

Eliot smiles down at him, shoving open the robe so his chest and stomach are fully on display, tracing his fingers up and down. “Well, I’m not,” Eliot offers after a moment.

“Not what? A student? Because that will have a severe effect on your final grade.”

“Seeing anyone else,” Eliot says softly. “Not since—” _I first stepped foot in your class_ —“not for a while.”

Quentin blinks up at him, wide, dark eyes. “Oh. Me neither,” he says softly. He tugs Eliot closer and kisses him, tracing his tongue along Eliot’s teeth. Lazy sparks are shooting through Eliot’s body, and he can feel his cock stirring again… but he’s also fucking tired. It’s gotta be three in the morning, his emotional bandwidth is completely depleted, and his limbs are growing heavy. He gently pulls away, nestling his head on Quentin’s shoulder, tugging him closer. Their legs tangle together, Quentin’s foot rubbing against his calf.

“Can you stay a little while?” Eliot asks, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah.” He feels Quentin’s response rumble through his chest, and he sighs as Quentin wraps an arm around him, threading his fingers through his hair. Quentin says something else, but Eliot is already asleep.

~~~

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eliot swears, fingers gripping tight into Quentin’s hair as he comes down Quentin’s throat. Quentin swallows it down, his head bobbing in between Eliot’s thighs until he pulls off, coughing slightly and wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Eliot has no idea what time it is, probably late morning, judging from the light streaming into his bedroom, but he couldn’t give any less of a fuck. He’d been having an amazing dream about Quentin blowing him when he woke up and realized it wasn’t a dream, he was getting an actual blow job from actual Quentin, who had apparently slept over. In Eliot’s bed. All night.

“Good morning,” Eliot says as Quentin lays next to him. “You know, this kind of behavior isn’t going to discourage me from trying to get you to spend the night again. "

Quentin smiles at him, and Eliot kisses him, tasting himself on Quentin's tongue as he slides his hand inside Quentin's boxers. Quentin shudders as Eliot strokes his already-hard cock—apparently Quentin enjoyed the morning blowjob almost as much as Eliot did.

"Ah—that was okay?" Quentin asks as Eliot shoves his boxers down Quentin's thighs, starts moving down the bed. "I always wanted to—fuck—do that, but we hadn't talked about it, but I woke up first and just couldn't—nnggghhh." Quentin's ability to form words leaves him as Eliot wraps his lips around the head of Quentin's dick.

After a moment, Eliot pulls off, moving his fingers in a tut. "Couldn't resist putting your mouth on my cock? A common ailment." He spreads the lube he’s conjured between his two hands. He strokes Quentin's dick with one hand, caressing his balls with the other. "Yes, Quentin, that's perfectly fine. I'd love to subscribe to your daily wake-up service." Then he relaxes his throat and takes Quentin in as far as he can.

It takes Quentin less than a minute to come, which pleases Eliot, that Quentin’s stunning stamina is no match for his mouth. It is slightly disappointing that Eliot wasn’t able to get his tongue inside Quentin, but something for next time…

“What time is it?” Quentin asks, in a daze as he comes back to himself.

Eliot grabs his phone from the nightstand— “10:23. In the morning.” He drops it and turns back to Quentin, stretching slightly before dropping a kiss on his shoulder. There’s a good, deep ache in his thighs, his hips—all signs of a fun night before. Quentin sighs as he wraps an arm around Eliot, pulling him in close, brushing his lips over Eliot’s forehead.

“I haven’t slept this late in… years,” Quentin says, trailing his fingers down Eliot’s arm. They still, suddenly. “I can’t remember any dreams from last night.” Eliot glances up at Quentin’s face, he’s frowning, his eyes searching Eliot’s ceiling.

“Well, you were pretty worn out,” Eliot says, pressing his nose into Quentin’s collarbone. He still has the soft smell of cigarettes and liquor, but underneath is an undeniable scent that Eliot only knows as Quentin, like linen and pine all rolled together. “You probably didn’t dream.”

“I always dream,” Quentin says absently.

“What do you dream about?” Eliot asks, and Quentin’s body tenses under him slightly. Then he relaxes, his finger trailing down Eliot’s arm again.

“Different things,” he says casually. “Work. You,” he says, threading his fingers in Eliot’s hair.

Eliot bats his eyelashes up at Quentin. “And what, pray tell, is the content of these dreams?” Eliot props his chin on Quentin’s shoulder, one arm thrown across his waist.

Quentin shrugs. “Different things,” he says again, smiling at the ceiling. “They don’t involve breaking pocketwatches, that’s for sure.” Before Eliot can open his mouth again, he continues, “I should probably go. I should’ve left while it was still dark out.”

Eliot's eyes sparkle as he looks at Quentin. “Don’t think for a second I’m forgetting this conversation.” Quentin laughs, thumping his head back against the pillow. They lay in the quiet for a moment, and then Eliot says, “ _Yon light is not daylight, I know it. It is some meteor that the sun exhales_.” Quentin’s eyes widen slightly, and Eliot feels his fingers spasm on his back. Eliot can’t quite remember the rest of the passage, but he does recall the end. “ _Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone_.”

“Fuck,” Quentin whispers, sliding down on the bed so he can kiss Eliot, thread his fingers through his hair. “Do you have any _idea_ how hot that is? That you can make me come so hard and throw Shakespeare at me less than a minute later?”

Eliot laughs, in between kisses. “I’m glad you approve. Although I wasn’t the only one quoting Shakespeare last night.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Please don’t remind me, not my proudest moment.” His fingers dance down Eliot’s back, his palm flatting into a caress as he reaches Eliot’s ribs. “You remember way more of the play than I do.”

Eliot smiles, nibbling down Quentin’s neck. “I was Romeo in undergrad. I won ‘Best Legs-In-Tights’ at the wrap party.”

“Of course you did,” Quentin laughs, drawing Eliot in for another kiss, long and sweet. “I do have to go, though,” he says when he draws back. He gives Eliot a long look that makes him shiver. “I meant what I said. I won’t disappear again.”

Eliot looks at him for a moment. “Okay,” he says. He’s not sure if he believes Quentin—but he believes Quentin believes Quentin. That’s enough for now.

They drag themselves out of bed, grab Quentin’s clothing from where it had landed on the floor.

Eliot is buttoning up his shirt when a thought occurs to him. “Hey, so what's up with the secret hidden door that leads right outside my bedroom? Did you make that?”

Quentin smiles as he pulls on his pants, “No, it was here when I enrolled. Plum showed it to me.”

“A fruit showed you a secret door to the Cottage?”

“No,” Quentin says, chuckling. “Plum was her name. She was a fourth-year when I was a first-year. I caught her using it one night for some prank when I was walking back from the library. She showed me how to open it. I can show you sometime, when it’s not bright outside. It’s just a manipulation to the typical unlocking charm; you just gotta hit the right distance from the wall. You go a foot too far, you might hit a portal to some crazy places.”

Eliot nods. His only use for the door right now would be to sneak in his secret lover, but he was sure he and Margo could find other uses for it. “You gonna do the Walk of Shame back to your apartment?” he asks lightly. It’s a serious question, students will be walking around campus and Professor Coldwater leaving the Cottage on a Saturday morning will draw some attention.

“I’ll use primary invisibility,” Quentin says, tugging his shirt over his head.

Eliot nods. “Your phosphoromancy’s pretty good, then?” he asks. It’s one of Eliot’s weak points, light magic. It took weeks of practice just to get his hand to disappear, let alone his entire body.

Quentin seems to almost freeze as he’s balanced on one leg, tugging on his shoe. He nearly topples over, but rights himself and stuffs his foot into his converse. “Uh, yeah,” he says, distracted. “I—uh, have some experience with it.”

Eliot’s brow furrows at the odd tone in Quentin’s voice, but he decides against asking. Quentin changes the subject anyway, asking, “So, were you like, serious about, uh, well, maybe not ‘taking me shopping’, but just helping me pick out more clothes that’ll get Henry off my back? Julia usually helps me, but—”

“Q,” Eliot says, Quentin’s tentative expression suddenly melting into a smile, “Nothing would give me more pleasure than getting you out of those baggy jeans and oversized hoodies and into clothes that actually fit.”

“Really? _Nothing_?” Quentin smiles at him as he pulls on his jacket, and Eliot’s heart does a little backflip in his chest.

“Well,” Eliot says, “maybe not nothing.”

A few minutes later, they’re standing at Eliot’s door, Eliot pushing Quentin’s hair behind his ear. They have to say their goodbyes now, since they can’t linger in the hallway, lest someone see Quentin. “Until next time,” Eliot says, and Quentin smiles, pushing up on his toes to kiss him.

Those same sparkles from the night before and earlier in bed filter through Eliot’s body, lighting him up from the inside. Eliot knows it won’t always be like this, it can’t, with just a brush of Quentin’s lips sending him spiraling. But he’ll enjoy it while it is. The kiss is joyful, teasing, a taste of things to come. When Quentin pulls away, both men are smiling.

“Okay, I’ll come get you when it’s clear.” Quentin nods, and Eliot walks down the stairs, looks down the hallway. It’s deserted, the few bedroom and bathroom doors closed. Eliot waits for a moment, listens—no footsteps. He runs back up the stairs and gets Quentin.

They stand outside the linen closet that Quentin appeared through. “Here,” Quentin whispers. He quickly walks Eliot through the motion, and when they open the closet, instead of shelves full of sheets and towels, there’s a passageway.

“That’s handy,” Eliot says, peering inside. Quentin grabs Eliot’s hand, and Eliot turns back to him.

Eliot thinks Quentin means to just give him a quick kiss, but this may be their last opportunity for a few days, and his hand cups Quentin’s cheek and Quentin slips an arm round Eliot’s waist and Quentin is making that small, happy noise that Eliot loves and then someone is clearing their throat behind them.

They jerk away from each other, whirling to look into the amused eyes of Margo, standing in the hallway in her black silk robe. “Guess he texted after all?” she asks, arms crossed.

Eliot looks down at Quentin’s face, which is ashen. “Yeah,” Eliot says. He squeezes Quentin’s hand—“You should go.”

Quentin looks up at Eliot, nods. “Um. Bye Margo?” he says, lifting his hand in a half-wave. Margo arches an eyebrow at him, and Quentin lowers his hand and turns back to Eliot. He gives him a small smile and disappears down the hallway. Eliot shuts the door behind him.

He looks at Margo, whose amused expression has turned into one Eliot is much more familiar with - the ‘you’re a complete dumbass’ expression. Making out in the hallway of the Cottage with his professor is the exact opposite of discreet. He clears his throat. “Good morning, Bambi.”

"Eliot. You wanna tell me why my Minor Mending Professor, who looks _very_ well-fucked, by the way, just disappeared into the linen closet?"

~~~

tbc in Chapter 8: Section 5.3 - Flow Chart C - Falling Deeper Without Recommended Emotional Cognizance


	8. Section 5.2 - Factors that may increase the risk of developing panic attacks include:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin’s [outfit](https://i.imgur.com/0OMWSwf.jpg) in the first scene of this story.

_Quentin_

“You guys have been seeing each other for almost two months, Q. Going away together for a few days isn’t a big deal.” Julia sits down on his couch in his office, and Quentin tries not to think about taking Eliot apart with his mouth on that couch just the night before. _I should really get that cleaned._

“It is when it’s like, Christmas, Julia! And I told you—we’re not like, a thing. We’re just—” Quentin glances at his office door, a few inches ajar, and leans on the edge of his desk. Eliot should be coming by any minute, and Quentin would really love for Julia to _not_ be here when that happens.

“I know, I know,” Julia says, rolling her eyes. She raises her fingers and does that stupid little air quote thing, because her eyeroll just didn’t get the message across. “‘Keeping it casual.’” She fixes Quentin with a knowing stare. “Have you even seen any other guys since you started seeing Nigel?”

 _Nigel_. Quentin grimaces inwardly, that he has to use a fake name for his real… person he’s… spending time with. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Julia exhales hard, and Quentin imagines her scuttling her feet like a bull getting ready to charge. He can see it in her face the moment she decides to change tactics, when her frustrated expression turns into an understanding smile. “It’s not Christmas; Q, it’s New Year’s. The _perfect_ time for an intimate getaway with your person who is definitely not your boyfriend.”

Quentin’s heart jumps in his chest at that word. _Boyfriend_. It must show on his face, with the way Julia’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Q, I know I push sometimes. It’s just so… _good_ to see you this way.”

Quentin clears his throat, looking at the door, at Julia’s feet, at the scattered papers on his desk. “I’m not any different way, I’m my same... way I always am.”

Even as he says it, Quentin knows it isn’t quite true. For the past six weeks, he’s been… lighter. Sometimes he would even say he’s floating. And he knows why. Why he feels the most like an actual human being than he has in years. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s happy, but… he _wants_ to get out of bed every morning. He looks forward to his classes, and he’s not spending so much time in his room alone.

He’s spending it with Eliot.

Granted, every minute he spends with Eliot is another minute closer to ruining his career and losing the respect of his friends and colleagues, but if Quentin is going to jump off this cliff, he’s going to enjoy the trip down.

And, make no mistake, Quentin is _absolutely_ enjoying it.

They haven’t been able to see each other often—the end of term means both Eliot and Quentin have more actual work to do, and combined with the ever-present paranoia of getting caught, it all means that Quentin is getting laid far less often than he’d like. But when they are together, when Eliot’s fingers are dancing across Quentin’s skin, when Quentin’s mind goes silent and the only sounds are Eliot’s soft gasps and Quentin’s own keening moans, it’s just as electric and mind-blowing as it was the first time.

They more than make up for not physically seeing each other with the almost-nightly phone sex and the conversations that follow—Quentin is getting even less sleep than usual, but drifting off with Eliot’s voice in his airPods is more than worth it.

Then there’s the little things, feelings he forgot existed, that Eliot is reminding him of. Like the thrill he gets when, under the cover of invisibility, he slips out of the Cottage and back to his room, thinking _maybe I_ could _be a spy_. The warm fuzziness that spread in his chest one evening, when Quentin was buried in essays he’d left ungraded too long, and his phone buzzed with a text from Eliot.

_Eliot [8:03pm]_

_But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?_

_Quentin [8:04pm]_

_Can’t you ever quote Lord of the Rings at me? I promise you’d get an amazing response to ‘If you want him, come and claim him!’_

_Eliot [8:04pm]_

_Brat. Can you come to your back door? I’m in the woods just beyond._

Quentin had crept downstairs, passing Professor Cortez as he watched a rerun of _Sex & the City_ in the common room. No one else was around, but Quentin put on his jacket and pretended that he was going outside for a smoke (a flimsy excuse; as if he ever bothered going outside to smoke). He’d found Eliot just beyond the edge of the forest that surrounded Brakebills, leaning against a tree with a container of home-cooked pasta tucked under his arm. Quentin hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he’d felt an entirely different hunger when he’d looked at Eliot’s pleased smile.

“You brought me dinner?” Quentin felt the softest delight swell up in his chest as Eliot shoved the bowl into his hands.

“Am I correct in my assumption that you haven’t eaten in hours?” he’d asked haughtily, one eyebrow arched. Quentin could still feel Eliot’s grin against his own when Quentin showed him how thankful he was.

And that’s the thing, the part of this entire… situation, that Quentin keeps shoving to the back of his mind. More than the physical, Quentin craves the way he feels when he’s with Eliot. It reminds him of how he felt when Henry had screamed at him during his entrance exam, _Do some goddamn magic!_ and all of those cards had just exploded into the air, hovering in front of his fucking face before he passed out. Like he could make the impossible happen. Like he was worth something.

Quentin thought he’d been keeping it cool, maintaining his same weary, unaffected demeanor over these past few weeks. From the soft smile on Julia’s face right now, he had failed miserably.

“Quentin,” Julia says softly, getting up and walking over to him. She grabs one of his hands, takes it between her own. “You _are_ different. You smile more. You don’t drink… well, I haven't gotten any phone calls to pick you up from a bar in over a month, anyway. You’re not missing classes—”

Quentin sighs. “You and Penny _must_ have better things to talk about.”

Julia ignores him, as she likes to do, plowing forward. “You’re _happy_ , Q. And you look _amazing_. You let this guy take you _shopping_ , you must like him.” She squeezes his hand and Quentin struggles to not squirm under her concerned, happy gaze.

“He just picked out some stuff online,” Quentin mumbles, his face burning, pulling his hand back and walking away, sitting down on the couch. He can get a better view of the hall from this angle—maybe see when Eliot is approaching.

Julia smiles at him, takes his place leaning against his desk. “He has great taste. That suit looks like it was made for you. Does he work in fashion, perhaps?” Her eyes are sparkling; she is just _entirely_ too happy.

Quentin glances down at his matching dark grey jacket and pants, shiny dress shoes, and black and white polka dot button-down. It was his favorite of all the outfits Eliot had waiting for him at the Cottage one night a couple of weeks ago. He’d made Quentin try everything on and magically altered them; it had taken two hours and Quentin had hated every second of it. Eliot had a great time though, and the blowjob he’d given Quentin afterward more than made up for Quentin’s embarrassment.

“Thanks,” Quentin says tightly, pointedly ignoring Julia’s question. Ever since he’d told her (or given in to her interrogation) that he was still seeing the person he’d mentioned at the cafe, she was an endless string of questions and speculation. _What’s his name? Nigel? Oooh, where’s he from? Does he have an accent? Can I see a picture? What do you mean you don’t have any pictures? Not even a selfie? What does ‘keeping it casual’ have to do with taking a freakin’ selfie?_

Julia sighs, but she’s still smiling. “All right then, keep your secrets,” she says. Which doesn’t fool Quentin into thinking she’s going to drop it. “I’ll stop bothering you about Nigel if you promise to at least think about it.” At Quentin’s silence, she continues, “It’s a free holiday to a ridiculously nice cabin in the woods. You guys won’t even have to see another person if you don’t want to; it’s _literally_ perfect for you, Q. Please?” Julia has really perfected that pout, and she’s turning it full-force on Quentin.

Quentin can already feel himself breaking. “I’ll think about it,” he sighs, and tries to ignore how much Julia’s face lights up.

“You better. You can hardly even call it a cabin; it’s legit glamping. Kady said the place has a hot tub. You and Nigel could... you know.” Julia winks at him.

“Oh my God. You said you were going to stop.”

“But you make it so much fun, Q. Look, I promise, the last time I’ll mention it—Kady knows the right people. We’re not using the reservation. Just do it. Asheville is fucking incredible. I swear you’ll be singing my praises for years to come.” She crosses her arms and fixes him with a pointed stare.

Quentin sighs. “Oh, I already do sing your praises. You’re literally the reason I’m alive today.” Julia’s face grows softer at this, her arms falling to her sides. Quentin continues, “But yeah—okay. I’m considering it. Now get off my back.”

Julia bounces on the balls of her feet. Even with Quentin constantly deflecting her questions, refusing to give any info about ‘Nigel,’ claiming over and over he wasn’t ready to talk about him, Julia is still so _thrilled_ that he’s made a connection with someone that’s lasted longer than a few hours.

Of course, Julia has no idea that ‘Nigel’ is Eliot. How she hadn’t noticed the sheer panic in Quentin’s eyes when Julia had asked the name of the guy he was seeing was a mystery to him. He just said the first thing that popped into his head because the name of the _guy you’re seeing_ even if you’re just ‘keeping it casual’ really isn’t something you should _hesitate_ on.

Really, he should be thankful he didn’t just blurt out “Eliot, my student, who legitimately earned his A in Minor Mending, and would have earned another one in Rimming if we taught that at Brakebills.”

And, yeah. The idea of going away with Eliot, spending days together with no worry about who might see them or if the sound wards on their rooms were still intact, is enticing. They wouldn't have to sneak around, and could maybe even go out in public to a restaurant or a bar, like real people do. It would be amazing.

The past six weeks, Quentin and Eliot had only seen each other, _really_ seen each other a few times a week, if they were lucky. Quentin wants to see Eliot every day and night, but sneaking into each other’s rooms so often was just too dangerous.

So they’ve gotten creative.

At this point, Quentin could write a fucking guidebook on how to not get caught fucking your student on the Brakebills campus.

“How to Earn Your Merit Badge of Complete Illicit Sexual Gratification and Keep Your Job in Six Easy Steps.”

  1. Keep a schedule.

    1. The Observatory Tower was all but defunct, and at least once a week Quentin and Eliot met there. One of them always arrived first to make sure it was empty before texting the other, and they set up wards to ensure if anyone came to the tower while they were there, they’d have enough notice to disappear, or at least stuff their cocks back in their pants. Eliot had blown him in that orange chair more than once, Quentin’s hands threading through Eliot’s hair as Eliot sucked Quentin’s cock with a desperate hunger that lit Quentin’s blood on fire anytime he thought back to it.

  2. But Don’t Be Afraid to Deviate from the Schedule

    1. One night when the orange chair was already occupied, Eliot suggested the basement of the math building. Quentin slipped through the back entrance and bent Eliot over the same study table Quentin had used during study groups in his second year.

  3. Know Your Limits

    1. A few times they fell asleep together, and while waking up in Eliot’s arms did fuzzy things to Quentin’s heart (and divine things to his cock), it was the most dangerous habit to fall into (for multiple reasons). They were nearly caught one Sunday morning when Quentin was trying to sneak Eliot out of his room behind an obscuring ward. Penny’s eyes had narrowed when he felt the magic in the air, and Quentin had immediately demanded that Penny watch his new card trick _right the fuck now_. He’d kept Penny distracted enough (and his mental wards airtight enough) for Eliot to slip out the back door, but his nerves had never fully recovered. They set alarms on their phones after that so when they did visit each other’s rooms, they’d always be awake to leave before morning.

  4. Stay Hydrated

    1. With all the pot they smoked together, combined with all the fucking, Quentin learned quickly to keep a bottle of water or Gatorade (sometimes yellow, sometimes blue, never white) with him whenever he was meeting Eliot. His body thanked him for it, even if it yelled at him for all the other abuse he was putting it through.

  5. Know When to Say “Fuck It” (Literally)

    1. While Quentin would prefer to spend hours, days, weeks, worshipping at the Temple of Eliot Waugh, he did not have that luxury. Sometimes there was only time for efficient handjobs or quick blowjobs...

    2. ...but that didn’t mean they didn’t try to get their dicks in each other as often as possible. Quentin would never forget the night in his office, when Eliot swept everything off Quentin’s desk and then bent Quentin over it, his sweaty chest sliding against Quentin’s back as he whispered in Quentin’s ear that the silencing wards on his office weren’t nearly as strong as the ones in his room, and he had to be _quiet_.

      1. Quentin’s desk lamp and a paperweight had fallen victim to Eliot’s passionate gesture, breaking when they’d hit the floor. Quentin made Eliot mend them after they were done; Eliot was so fond of calling their time in Quentin’s office ‘one-on-one tutoring,’ it was only fair.

  6. Be Aware of the Emergency Exits

    1. Always know the fastest escape route. They’d needed to skirt past Dean Fogg while he was drinking whiskey in his office at three in the morning. Quentin found great success with an illusion spell that made Eliot look like Penny for five minutes. It made for a sexually confusing experience for Quentin, but it sure as hell worked.




In all, Quentin is shocked they haven’t been caught ten times over. But there’s still plenty of time for it all to come crashing down—even though finals wrapped up the week before, and Eliot is no longer officially his student, it doesn’t mean their relationship is any less illegal. Eliot passed Minor Mending with no trouble—for his practical final, he’d, with no hesitation, mended that same damn pocket watch that had seen so much abuse earlier in the semester.

Although it takes a small weight off Quentin’s shoulder, that he’s no longer technically fucking his student, he is more than a little sad to lose the guaranteed three times a week he got to see Eliot.

With students heading home for the break, Quentin hoped, with a mostly-deserted campus, he’d be able to see Eliot more. But he has no idea what Eliot’s plans are over break. They haven’t discussed it. While they've talked plenty, it’s always very light. Superficial. Nothing too serious. Quentin can tell you that while Eliot abhorred the _Cats_ stage musical, he thinks the new movie is the greatest thing he's ever seen, but Quentin has no idea of the names of Eliot's parents, or even what state he'd grown up in.

Which is fine. Quentin doesn't need to know those things, it doesn't _bother_ him that he doesn't know that stuff. Eliot’s not his boyfriend. He never will be. Their plans for the future reach as far as the next time they'll get to see each other, and that's it.

Quentin is fine with that. _Fine._ The thought of his time with Eliot being finite, that every minute is another grain through an hourglass that is way too fucking small... maybe it sends a searing pain straight through his heart. Maybe it makes his hands tremble, his breath catch in his throat. But it doesn’t matter. Eliot isn't his future.

Eliot is his present. His sweet, enthralling, incredible present.

So enthralling that his work was suffering, as Henry had come around to remind him. It had been the day before Quentin had shown up on Eliot’s lawn, drunk off his ass, making horrible Rapunzel jokes and nearly stumbling into an entire party full of physical kids.

Tired of Quentin dodging his requests for a meeting, Henry wanted to have a chat. Quentin was sure that somehow, Henry knew everything: the late night phone calls, sneaking Eliot into the teacher apartments, and the locked folder on Quentin’s phone that had all the pictures of ‘Nigel’ that Quentin swore up and down to Julia didn’t exist.

Not that any of those pictures were suitable for sharing.

Henry, though, appeared blissfully ignorant; he’d come by to lecture Quentin on his frequent cancellation of classes, the faculty dress code (“It’s not a suggestion, Quentin,” he’d said dryly, eyeing Quentin’s ‘Take this if you want to live’ t-shirt), and professional decorum. (“I don’t care how you take the edge off, just take it off _after_ class. Not immediately before. Not _during_.”) Quentin had nodded and promised to do better, and then immediately locked his office and nearly broken down behind his desk. He’d portaled to his favorite bar to have a few drinks before dinner, which turned into drinking his dinner, and then best-bartender Danny was talking to Julia. Quentin had a blurry recollection of her hand on his arm, pushing him into an Uber for the short ride back to her apartment. He was later thankful he’d forgotten his phone in his office that day; who knew what he would have texted Eliot in that state.

Probably cheesy pick-up lines and _Romeo & Juliet_ quotes, if his actions the next night were any indication. He’d dragged his ass back to campus early the next morning, pissed at himself for running out of hangover potions. He’d felt Penny’s eyes on him the entire day in training, which he’d steadfastly ignored. By the time he was able to get to his office and retrieve his phone, it was late Friday afternoon. He saw the missed call from Eliot and his texts, and felt like shit all over again. He remembered, very clearly, sitting at his desk with his phone in his hand, typing _I’m sorry_ into the little text box, his hand hovering over the send button.

Instead of pressing it, he put his phone in his pocket and went back to his room, where he finished the vodka that Eliot had left for him the week before, and the ‘horrible’ whiskey in the common area.

It had been sometime after midnight when he suddenly remembered that he has the _perfect_ thing anyone needs for a secret affair with a student that lives in the attic bedroom of the Cottage. A fucking hidden door! And suddenly he was halfway across campus, slurring the most obvious line from Shakespeare outside Eliot’s window.

After that night at the Cottage, Quentin decided he was _in_. No more waffling back and forth, he was gonna ride this wave until it drowned him. He’d told Eliot that this… _thing_ was important to him. A spectacular understatement. It’s ballooned into _the most_ fucking important thing in his life. He checks his phone so much that Penny has threatened to take it away. (“ _Sext on your own time, Coldwater.”_ ) The second his lips leave Eliot’s in a goodbye kiss, Quentin is already skipping ahead to the next time he can see him.

But this levity, this light, is never without a shadow. Quentin can feel it creeping up behind him, like those angels in Doctor Who, that could only move when you weren’t looking. It’s the tingle on the back of his neck, the dark whisper in the back of his mind, the feminine, lilting voice, saying that he _doesn’t deserve this_ and everything is _temporary_.

That same voice haunts him when he’s awake or sleeping, but now it’s almost always accompanied by Eliot’s soft timbre. He features in Quentin’s dreams more than Alice does, and sometimes it’s even for the better. There are happy dreams, though only a handful, which Quentin of course never fully remembers. He can barely recall the pieces… these beautiful pieces of kissing Eliot under a night sky as snowflakes fall around them, laying in bed reading aloud as Eliot’s fingers tangle in Quentin’s hair, or sitting next to each other in a smoke-filled bar, sharing a drink.

There are, of course, the sex dreams. A ridiculous number of sex dreams, that pop up in his brain randomly throughout the day. Dreams where he fucks Eliot everywhere from his bedroom to the couch in the Cottage to a cloud floating high above the city.

But the nightmares… those he can recount in perfect clarity. A blue-eyed Eliot bearing down on him, white lightning skittering all over his hands and hair. Laughing as he says words so cruel Quentin sometimes wakes up sobbing. _I could never love someone as soft as you._ Sometimes Alice is there too, her eyes that same vivid blue, holding Eliot’s hand, giggling with him as they cast sideways glances at Quentin. _The sound of your voice—your breath, your body, your weakness, we can’t stand it._ Sometimes it’s just Alice by herself. _It’s only a matter of time before you kill him like you did me. I’ll be waiting. I’ll make it good for him, don’t you worry._

The only nights he hasn’t dreamed in the past few months are the few times he’s fallen asleep with Eliot’s arms tight around him. If they went away to a beautiful, secluded cabin in North Carolina, he could have that peace, that quiet every night. Wake up feeling rested instead of exhausted, crying, or terrified.

He should be jumping at the chance, eager for the opportunity to let his mind rest for a few days.

To dispel the visions of Alice that creep into his head every night.

Instead the prospect is terrifying.

He looks at Julia, who’s still smiling at him from his desk. He’s about to tell her he has a lot of work to do to clean up before the break (which is actually true), and she should probably be on her way, when she asks, “You decide what you’re going to do for Christmas?”

Quentin sighs. Another topic he has no desire to think about. His mom asked him to spend Christmas Eve and day with her and her wife, Molly. His relationship with her is basically nonexistent. He hadn’t heard from her in months, not since her perfunctory birthday phone call during the summer. The fact that she’d invite him at all was odd; she was normally content with their sporadic holiday conversations.

Quentin crosses his arms and with just a look, Julia gets it. She’d witnessed more than one maternally-fueled breakdown in high school and had listened to dozens of miserable phone calls when he was visiting his mom. He’d done the same for her when her parents were splitting up, and then getting back together. Multiple times. She’d never judge him for opting out of any family reunions.

Standing up, she says, “You’re always welcome at my place for Christmas dinner. Mom and Mackenzie are coming; they’d love to see you. And anyone you might want to bring…” she trails off. Quentin raises an eyebrow at her. _‘The last time I’ll mention it’ my ass._ Julia shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

She stands up and grabs her jacket from where she’d tossed it over the back of one of Quentin’s office chairs. _Finally_ , Quentin thinks, standing up from the couch. “I’m gonna go—” She’s interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

Eliot nudges the door open, and Quentin’s heart jumps in his chest, just like it always does every time he sees Eliot. “Hey—” Eliot starts, a smile splitting his face as he walks in.

Quentin stuffs his hands in his pockets as he struggles to keep his face neutral. “Eliot,” he says quickly, stiffly and formally. His gaze cuts over to Julia, who’s hitching her purse over her shoulder, not even looking at them.

Eliot’s grin doesn’t disappear, but it does transform, into something less personal, more generic, as he turns towards Julia. “Oh!” he says pleasantly. “Hello, again.”

Julia smiles at him. “Eliot, right?” He nods, one hand lingering on the doorknob to Quentin’s office. He looks at Quentin quickly, questioning. _Should I go?_

Quentin clears his throat. “Ready to review your final?” At Eliot’s quick nod, Quentin continues, “Julia was just leaving.”

Julia smirks. “I’ll text you later. We can hold the reservation for a few more days. I really hope you go, Q.” Quentin’s pulse picks up speed; _Julia_ is the one who needs to go.

“I know,” Quentin says, shuffling towards Julia, holding a hand out to guide her through the door and _away_ from them.

“You promised to think about it,” she continues as she oh-so-fucking slowly walks towards the door. Quentin is right behind her as Eliot watches, his eyes amused and curious. _Christ, please leave,_ Quentin mentally pleads.

“Eliot, wouldn’t you want to spend New Year’s in a cabin in the mountains alone with your… person?” Julia asks, standing in the doorway of his office. Quentin sighs, inwardly and outwardly. _Fuck._

Eliot was just about to sit down in one of the chairs in front of Quentin’s desk, and he freezes in the movement. His face goes on a complicated journey, starting with confusion, pausing at amusement, before settling on that same pleasant expression he’d put on when he first noticed Julia. “Oh,” he says, chuckling, standing up straight. “I—ah—yeah, that sounds like a pretty great way to… ring in the new year.” He glances over at Quentin, his expression falling slightly, like he’s trying to piece something together.

Quentin has one hand on the door, ready to shut it as soon as Julia gets into the hallway. She’s not moving though, still smiling at Eliot. “It _does_ , doesn’t it?” she says.

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone, Professor,” Eliot says lightly. Quentin turns to him, wide-eyed, to see Eliot’s eyes now alight with delight as he smiles at Quentin.

“Quentin is very private,” Julia says. “All I know is his name is Nigel.”

_Oh my god._

“Nigel?” Eliot asks, his voice squeaking slightly.

 _Be aware of the emergency exits._ Quentin is going to jump out the window. It’s the fastest way to escape and if he breaks his legs, well, he won’t be going _anywhere_ for New Year’s.

“Julia,” Quentin says, turning to her, “Eliot and I need to go over his final, so—”

“Oh,” Eliot says, having recovered. “That’s okay, Professor. Is it the guy that meets you after class sometimes? He’s gorgeous!”

Quentin jerks his head back to Eliot, who’s adopted an innocent, wide-eyed expression. Julia takes a step back inside the office— _wrong direction!_ —also looking at Eliot. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh yes,” Eliot says, nodding solemnly. “We’re all wondering how Professor C got his hands on him.”

“Okay!” Quentin says quickly, moving between Eliot and Julia. He can hear Eliot chuckle behind him. “Julia, I really need to finish up here, so I’ll text you, okay?”

“Okay,” Julia says, amused. She looks beyond Quentin— “Bye, Eliot!”

Eliot raises his hand in a wave as Quentin shuts the door behind her. Quentin leaves his hand on the doorknob, looking at Eliot as he flattens out his lips, fighting back the smile that always arrives when Eliot does. “Gorgeous, huh?” Eliot _is_ gorgeous, with his stupid amazing hair, that one goddamn curl casually falling over his forehead, a knit cardigan that he’s wears like he’s doing it a favor, long legs in skinny trousers, and warm, bright eyes trailing up and down Quentin’s frame. He’s also cocky (inclusive of _all_ definitions of the word). Quentin still shouldn’t find him this sexy, after weeks of having him. But if anything, now that knows what’s under those ridiculously well-fitting clothes, Quentin just wants him more.

Eliot smirks at Quentin as he crosses the few steps between them and, resting a palm on Quentin’s neck, leans down for a kiss. “I only speak the truth,” he says as he pulls away. Quentin locks his door and lets Eliot tug him over to the couch.

“Sorry about that,” Quentin says as they sit down. “I wasn’t expecting her; she just showed up to chat.”

“About a cabin in the mountains?” Eliot asks, taking Quentin’s hand in his.

“Um, yeah,” Quentin says, smoothing his fingers over Eliot’s wrist. Hoping to deflect, to at least have a chance to get his thoughts together before he even broaches the possibility of taking Julia up on her offer he asks, “Get all your grades back?” The hallway outside is quiet; most students and faculty have already dispersed for break.

“Yep, all good. So, a cabin in the mountains?” Eliot asks again, tilting his head towards Quentin. _So much for that,_ Quentin thinks, looking down at their joined hands.

Their bodies are turned towards each other, fingers tangled between them. Eliot reaches over and tucks a loose strand of Quentin’s hair behind his ear, letting his arm rest along the back of the couch. Anytime they’re alone, they’re never not touching; it’s too rare an opportunity to spend any second of it without Eliot’s skin under his fingertips.

Quentin clears his throat. He’s nowhere near _ready_ for this conversation, but if he waited to do anything until he was ready, he’d… never do anything. His pulse spikes as he focuses on Eliot’s knees, one lightly pressing against Quentin’s. “Uh, yeah. Or it’s in the woods? The mountainous woods?" He chuckles nervously. "Anyway, Kady, Julia’s wife, got a reservation at a cabin in North Carolina. Uh, Asheville? Has a portal set up and everything, but something came up, and Julia and Kady can’t use it. So Julia was trying to convince me to take…” Quentin trails off awkwardly, his eyes flickering up to Eliot’s.

“Nigel,” Eliot finished for him. “Your… person.” Eliot’s hand shifts from the back of the couch to trail over the back of Quentin’s neck, dip below the neck of his shirt to tease at the skin just beneath.

 _You are my person_ , Quentin thinks as he shifts uncomfortably, even as Eliot’s touch sends a warm wave of comfort through his chest. Words to think, not to say.

Danger signs are flashing in Quentin’s brain, the same way they did anytime Eliot dances too close to the boundary Quentin has set up around his heart. Usually when that happens, Quentin takes the lead and steers him away, tucking him safely in a back corner, far away from any dangerous edges. Somehow, though Eliot always seemed to make his way back to the railing, leaning against it, testing how far it could bend before it toppled over. The last time he’d touched it, Quentin had told Eliot he was _important_. Quentin had tried to reinforce it, strengthen that barrier that had stood so solid for so many years.

But every day, it only feels weaker.

A shiver runs down Quentin’s spine as the pads of Eliot’s fingers sweep across the nape of his neck. “Yeah, um… she figured out I’m seeing someone, and I couldn’t tell her your real name, so…”

Eliot hums. There’s a short pause, and Eliot’s fingers move higher to tangle in Quentin’s hair. Quentin’s eyes flutter shut as Eliot lightly pulls. “It sounds nice,” Eliot says, hesitation in his voice.

Quentin opens his eyes, his fingers tightening around Eliot’s hand. He was an idiot to even think for a second that Eliot may want to go, he probably has plans with Margo. “I mean—I’m sure it is. I just—uh, well, we haven’t, I mean, it's New Years, you might be busy, or, God, _of course_ you're busy, it's _New Years_ , I didn’t want to assume—”

“Q,” Eliot interrupts, his nails lightly scratching over the back of Quentin’s neck, “Breathe, baby.”

Quentin chuckles, then exhales, trying to relax. His body is wound up tight, coiled like a spring as a war between his brain, anxious over everything ever, fights with his body, that wants to only go limp under Eliot’s soothing touch. He focuses on Eliot’s face, which wears a thoughtful expression, his eyes searching Quentin’s.

“I think if you wanted to ask your… Nigel, he might be interested. In going,” Eliot says, the corners of his mouth pulling up.

“Yeah?” Quentin asks softly, as some of the tension drains from his body. His heart suddenly feels a thousand times lighter, as he realizes that the fantasy of being with Eliot, in the broad daylight instead of dark shadows, could be a reality. Even if for only a few days. He stares up at Eliot, who smiles down at him.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees. “Do you want to go?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Quentin says immediately, Eliot chuckling. _God, you have zero chill._ “I mean, sure. I don’t have any other plans, so…” He’s quiet for a moment, his heart thumping in his chest as Eliot waits for him to continue. “What were you going to do over break?”

“You,” Eliot says, smiling, his voice low. Quentin’s dick started showing interest the first time Eliot had touched him, but that tone in Eliot’s voice has the same effect it always does: a bolt of heat shoots through Quentin’s stomach, and his cock starts to firm up, warm against his thigh. Eliot continues, “I usually stay on campus or visit Margo over breaks.”

“You don’t go back home?” Quentin asks, shifting in his seat, settling a few inches closer to Eliot. Quentin is nearly in his lap now, his knee resting on top of Eliot’s thigh. Eliot has his hand still threading through Quentin’s hair while the other pushes inside the sleeve of Quentin’s suit jacket, caressing his forearm.

“No,” Eliot says, leaning forward to press his lips just under Quentin’s ear. Quentin’s breath hitches sharply. “Do you want me to?” he whispers, his breath caressing the sensitive skin of Quentin’s ear.

“Want you to what?” Quentin asks, their conversation already slipping away, his eyes shut, leaning into Eliot’s touch as he slides his hand up Eliot’s arm.

“Spend a few days fucking you senseless in a cabin in the mountainous woods?” The warmth slowly building inside Quentin ignites into a white-hot flame, and he sighs as Eliot nips at his throat. Eliot lets go of Quentin’s hand to wrap his arm around Quentin’s waist and pull him fully into his lap.

“I—I think I would like that,” Quentin whispers as Eliot trails his lips up Quentin’s neck, teasing at the corner of his mouth.

“You think?” Eliot asks, one hand sliding under Quentin’s shirt, his palm warm through the thin material of Quentin’s undershirt.

“I—I mean,” Quentin says, squirming in Eliot’s lap as Eliot continues his trek to kiss every inch of skin on Quentin’s throat, “we’ve hardly spent more than four hours in a row together. We might make it through day one and realize we hate each other.”

He feels more than hears Eliot’s chuckle as Eliot fists and pulls Quentin’s hair, eliciting a sharp gasp from Quentin that melts into a moan. He’s fully hard now, and he can feel under his thigh that Eliot is close behind him. Quentin threads his fingers into Eliot’s hair, pulling his mouth into a filthy kiss.

Eliot pulls away, his breath still ghosting across Quentin’s lips. “Do you really think that’s what’s going to happen?” he asks, the hand on Quentin’s back moving to Quentin’s thigh, rubbing very close to Quentin’s aching cock.

“No,” Quentin moans, mouthing at Eliot’s jaw, hands slipping under Eliot’s cardigan to the shirt underneath. _So many fucking layers._

“What do you think will happen?” Eliot asks, his fingers rubbing slow circles, so close to where Quentin desperately wants them.

“We’ll spend the entire trip in the bedroom and never see any of the mountainous woods,” Quentin says, covering Eliot’s teasing hand with his own. Eliot grins against his lips as Quentin kisses him again, moving Eliot’s hand directly over his dick.

Eliot gently squeezes, and Quentin breaths out harshly at the delicious pressure of Eliot’s palm. “I’m already _feeling_ something mountainous,” Eliot says.

Quentin barks a short laugh that’s swallowed up by Eliot’s mouth on his. It’s dizzying, always, anytime Eliot is all around him—his hands on Quentin’s body, tongue in Quentin’s mouth. Heady, addictive; if Quentin could inject the way Eliot made him feel directly into his veins, he’d be a junkie for life.

Eliot gently tips Quentin backwards on the couch, it’s still too fucking short for him but they always make it work, until Eliot is settled right between Quentin’s open thighs. His weight on top of Quentin feels so fucking good, warm and heavy, safe and comforting.

“We—we shouldn’t do this here,” Quentin says, his body betraying his words as he wraps a leg around one of Eliot’s. It’s still daylight outside, almost dinnertime. Quentin can count the number of times they’ve fooled around while sunlight streamed in the room on one hand.

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, sliding his body between Quentin and the back of the couch, their legs adjusting around each other as his fingers tug down Quentin’s zipper. “The building was basically deserted when I came up. It’s just us.” He reaches inside Quentin’s pants, shoves his boxers down to pull out Quentin’s cock.

“Fuck,” Quentin whispers, head pushing back into the arm of the couch as Eliot strokes him once, twice. Sparks of pleasure are cresting out from his dick, weaving through and lighting up his veins. _How does this always feel so fucking good?_

“Back to our conversation,” Eliot says as he shoves Quentin’s shirt and undershirt up his chest, up to his armpits. Quentin’s belly is quivering as Eliot runs his palm down it. Then he lazily tuts, rubbing the resulting lube over his fingers. “Where’s this cabin at again?”

 _Fuck_ , how could he possibly expect Quentin to have a coherent _conversation_ right now? “Uh,” Quentin pants as Eliot’s fingers wrap around his hard cock. “Somewhere in North Carolina?” Eliot is supporting his head on one hand as the other is on Quentin’s dick, stroking from base to tip.

“Asheville, you said?” Eliot leans over, softly kisses down the side of Quentin’s face as his hand drops to Quentin’s balls, gently rubbing his fingers over them, teasing down lower.

“I don’t fucking know, Eliot. Can we talk about this after?” One of Quentin's hands is digging into the couch cushion, the other wrapped around Eliot's shoulders, fingers tight against the muscles there.

“After what?” Eliot asks, his hand moving back to Quentin’s cock. He starts that same lazy rhythm, and it’s so fucking different from when Quentin jerks himself off, so much _better_. Eliot’s hand is larger, and he reads Quentin like a book; he always has from day one.

“After you make me come and I suck you off?” Quentin says hopefully. Maybe he can entice Eliot to stop teasing so he doesn’t spend the rest of the day splayed out in his office with Eliot between his legs.

Not that it would be a _bad_ way to spend the evening, it’s just not conducive to the whole ‘being discreet’ thing they’d talked about.

“Mmmm, I think I’d rather discuss it now. Is it a _rustic_ cabin?” Eliot’s wrist twists as he strokes over the head of Quentin's cock, and Quentin bends one leg up at the knee, the muscles in his thighs tightening, his breath coming harder.

“Rustic?” What the fuck is he on about?

“Like, log cabin? Is there electricity, indoor plumbing?” Eliot turns his attention to Quentin’s ear, tugging on the earlobe with his teeth. His hand on Quentin’s dick quickens slightly, and a keening noise escapes Quentin’s lips.

“God—fuck—yeah. Jul—ugh, she said it was ‘legit glamping,' whatever the fuck that means. There’s a hot tub or something.” Eliot’s hand falters for a moment, and then continues, stroking faster. “Fuck _yes_ , just like that. Goddamn, Eliot, your hands are so fucking amazing. So good—”

“A hot tub?” Eliot interrupts, Quentin's cock jumping in his fist as he continues to drive Quentin closer to the edge. Eliot seems utterly nonplussed that Quentin is about to come all over his hand. "That sounds promising."

" _I_ sound promising," Quentin gasps. What the fuck is he even saying, there is no coherent thought, just the sound of Eliot's hand stroking his cock, Eliot's breath in his ear, Eliot's lips on his skin.

"You do, baby," Eliot whispers, grinding down slightly on Quentin's leg, the one trapped between Eliot's thighs. "You wanna come?"

" _Yes_ ," Quentin breathes. He's so close already…

"So quick today," Eliot teases, his voice drifting over Quentin, like a melody from a half-forgotten dream. "We just did this last night, you know. You must _really_ like the idea of North Carolina. Ruining your _impressive_ stamina." Quentin's balls are tight against his body, his entire body taut, ready to snap.

"I like the idea of _you_ in North Carolina," Quentin says. "I like the idea of you anywhere."

"Yeah?" Eliot whispers, his voice ragged in Quentin's ear. He's pressing his own hard cock against Quentin's thigh, chasing his own relief. "You wanna fuck me in the hot tub? Suck my dick in the shower? Eat me out on the couch while deer watch from the window?"

Apparently Quentin really does want that, as he comes with a shudder, all over his stomach and Eliot's hand. It's a soft explosion of pleasure all over his body, radiating from Eliot's hand into Quentin's cock, his thighs, seeping into every pore. Quentin's hardly come back to himself when he registers Eliot pulling his own dick out of his pants, running his fingers through the come on Quentin's chest, coating his cock with it.

"Fuck," Quentin says, reaching over, trying to get his hand on Eliot's dick, but the angle’s all wrong, he can’t reach well enough to actually do anything useful. Eliot doesn't seem to care, he's rutting into his fist, and Quentin settles for burying one hand in Eliot's hair and caressing Eliot's balls with the other. He slides down on the couch for better access, so he can bury his head in Eliot's neck, lick at his salty skin and drag his teeth down his wet-hot throat.

“I’ll fuck you in every room,” Quentin says, slightly lifting the leg he has between Eliot’s so he can separate Eliot’s thighs more, get enough space to move his fingers between them. “And the hot tub. Whatever you want, I want it too.” He shifts slightly lower, Eliot’s hand moving faster over his cock, rubbing against Quentin’s bare stomach with every movement.

“I want you—” Eliot grunts as Quentin manages to slip one finger inside Eliot’s tight entrance, up to the second knuckle. “Shit,” Eliot gasps, and then he comes, over Quentin’s stomach, and the sleeve of his shirt.

“Sorry,” he says a few minutes later, magicking Quentin’s shirt clean as Quentin grins at him.

“S’okay,” Quentin says, stretching up to brush his lips against Eliot’s. “It’s _only_ my favorite shirt.”

Eliot chuckles. “That I picked out for you.” He kisses Quentin again, slowly as they lay intertwined on the sofa.

Later that evening, before Quentin is about to walk over to the Cottage (it’s so deserted he may even be able to use a real door, but he probably won’t… just too risky), he sends Julia a quick text.

_Quentin [9:39pm]_

_I’ll take it._

~~~

Quentin spends the two weeks between telling Julia he’d use the reservation and walking through the cabin door having all kinds of exciting nervous breakdowns.

Breakdown #1 happens when Julia asks him what he’s getting Nigel for Christmas. Of course, people give gifts at Christmas, that’s a thing: he got gifts for Julia (Target gift card) and Kady (Target gift card) and Penny (CD of Taylor Swift’s Folklore, it’s their thing every time she puts out a new album), but a gift for Eliot? Does Eliot _want_ a gift? Does _Quentin_ want a gift? Does Eliot want a Target gift card? What if Eliot shows up with one and Quentin doesn’t? What’s the appropriate dollar amount to spend on the person that can make you come in under a minute but you’ve never held their hand in public? Are they at a gift level in their relationship? Oh dear god, _relationship_?

He eventually decides that, yes, he should get a gift for Eliot. A small one. He buys an ordinary sterling silver chain, for Eliot’s pocket watch that is, shockingly, still ticking by the end of the semester. Eliot already has it on a chain, but Quentin enchants this one so Eliot is the only person that can attach it to anything. He also adds a summoning charm—so no matter where Eliot is, when he casts the incantation, a beam of light will point him to the watch. It’s probably overkill, but Quentin uses that charm nearly daily on his classroom keys. (He still has no idea why he’s required to lock his class in a school full of magicians, but whatever makes you sleep better at night, Henry.)

All his worrying is for naught; Quentin doesn’t actually _give_ Eliot the gift. They wind up not seeing each other on Christmas Eve or Day; Quentin goes to Julia’s and Eliot has some ‘Christmas/Boxing Day’ tradition with Margo that involves portaling over to their favorite pub. In England. Eliot had mentioned that Quentin could come along, and as much as Quentin wants to visit Trafalgar Square (Doctor Who has filmed there, like, so many times), Quentin feels like he’d be intruding. And he doesn’t think Margo really likes him. Ever since that morning she caught him sneaking out of the cottage, she looks at him like she’s thinking about eating him. And not in the fun way.

Which makes sense, he’s not likeable on a good day, and every day to Margo is the day he’s fucking her best friend under the table...or behind closed doors? Well, at every possible opportunity. Quentin always feels like he’s thirty seconds away from the shovel talk with her, complete with a double barrel shotgun aimed straight at his face. ‘Cause no way Margo would go for anything other than the head shot. Eliot insists she's harmless, but Quentin has all the doubts.

The next time Quentin sees Eliot is at the Cottage the night before they leave for the cabin, Eliot doesn’t mention a gift, and Quentin sure as fuck isn’t bringing it up. But Quentin packs the silver chain—just in case.

Breakdown #2 occurs the day after Christmas. His mom calls him to say “Merry Christmas, I’m really disappointed you couldn’t come visit after years of silence, but whatever, I’ll try again on Easter.” Those aren’t her _exact_ words, but they’re enough to fire off his guilt cylinders. Quentin gets predictably drunk and texts Eliot, who is still in England at this point— _Tell 10 he’ll always be my favorite_ —which doesn’t get an immediate response, so he texts Julia— _I’m a horrible person and I deserve to die alone_ —and not even ten minutes later Penny is pulling him out of his room and down to the common area, muttering about how he doesn’t have time to be a babysitter. Quentin spends the rest of the night laughing his ass off at _Hot Tub Time Machine_ while Penny sighs, rolls his eyes, and looks at his phone.

He wakes up the next morning, on the couch with a blanket over him and Penny nowhere in sight. He does have several texts waiting for him:

  * From Eliot— _??????????? 10 what?_
  * From Julia— _Check in when you wake up! Hope you’re feeling better._
  * From Penny— _Please fucking eat the food in the fridge it’s from Pearl your goddamn name is on it_
  * Also from Penny— _don’t bother looking for your alcohol I took it_


  * And another— _I have no idea what you were dreaming about, but thank god you have silencing wards on your room because you’re a fucking perv_



Breakdown #3, the worst one, occurs the night before they leave for the cabin. Quentin leaves the Cottage and goes back to his room to finish packing and it’s like someone’s tossed a bucket of cold water over his head. _Holy fucking shit_ , he’s spending four days alone in a cabin with Eliot. The last even semi-romantic trip he took with someone was with Alice when they followed Kady and Julia to Encanto Oculto and it was… okay. Taking two high-strung super nerds to a week-long sex festival could either go one of two ways: they shut down and spend the entire time in their hotel room, or complete and total sexual explosion. Sadly, Alice and Quentin were the former. Quentin should try to go back. He’d have a lot more fun now.

Quentin is staring at his closet, wondering if he needs to bring a suit in case they go out for dinner, thinking Eliot may want to go somewhere fancy. He reaches for one of the jackets Eliot picked out for him, when a dark blue blazer in the back of the closet catches his eyes— _Honestly, Quentin, just try it. You’ll like it._

 _Just because something has the word ‘bacon’ in it, doesn’t mean you have to order it, Alice. I don’t even_ see _any bacon._

_It has a bacon and gruyere crust. Just scoop out the marrow, put it on the bread. Trust me._

He stares at the jacket, his feet frozen to the floor. His pulse is suddenly racing; his back and forehead are damp. The memory overtakes him, he can almost smell the food from the restaurant, feel the hard back of the chair he was sitting in that night.

 _Alice flicks her hair over her shoulder, scooping a bit of the mixture out of the middle of the literal bone the server brought to their table. Like, a_ legit bone _, almost a foot long, just split open and with cheese and bacon and… bone marrow inside. They’re paying actual money for this?_

_She puts the… bone marrow on the bread, and, as Quentin watches, brings it to her lips for a bite. Her eyes roll back in her head as she chews and swallows. “Oh yeah,” she says, licking her lips. “That’s fucking amazing. Try it.”_

_Then her blue eyes flicker up to his. Bluer than they should be. Lightning tingles over her face, her fingers. It wasn’t there before. “If you’re not too much of a pussy.”_

He stumbles over to his bed, sits down on the floor next to it, his head between his knees, fingers tight in his hair as he tries to control his breathing. Everything is tilting, even when he closes his eyes. It’s like someone’s flipped the room upside-down, and all he can do is wait and hope they set it right again.

_He scoops out some of the mixture and plops it down on the bread. He’s bringing it to his mouth when some of it falls off, onto the lapel of his dark blue blazer._

_“Shit,” he says, grabbing his napkin. He can hear Alice giggling as she puts another piece in her mouth._

He breathes through his mouth, eyes clamped shut.

_“It’s okay,” she says. She’s smiling, so big and full of teeth. Her cheeks are tinged blue, her hair so platinum, not honeyed-yellow. “It’s only our anniversary. Of course you’d fuck it up somehow.” She giggles again, then sighs. “Don’t worry. I’m sure no matter how much you spill or stumble, you’ll still end your night with Eliot’s dick in your mouth.”_

Tears are streaming down his face. _It’s not real. It was a dream, just a dream._

He’s not sure how long he sits there, five, maybe ten minutes before his breathing starts to slow and the world stops spinning. He feels warm but still somehow cold all over, like his skin is radiating heat as icy static snakes down the back of his neck, into his chest, down his arms all the way to his fingernails.

He reaches one hand up to his nightstand, fumbles for the phone on it. He pulls up his messages, looks at his thread with Julia, the last message she’d sent earlier that day.

_Julia [2:42pm]_

_You and Nigel are gonna have a great time! Let me know when you get there and TAKE PICTURES!_

He types _I think Im freaking out._ He goes to hit send… and stops. Scrolls back through the message thread.

_Quentin [12/26 8:37pm]_

_Im a horrible person and i deserve to die alone_

_Julia [12/26 8:39pm]_

_Quentin_

_Pick up the fucking phone_

_Goddammit Q. I can’t ditch Kady again. She’s still pissed about the last time. The last three times._

_Julia [12/26 8:43pm]_

_Penny’s on his way._

_I love you._

_Julia [12/27 8:15am]_

_Check in when you wake up! Hope you’re feeling better._

He drops his phone to the floor. Julia doesn’t deserve this. God knows he doesn’t deserve her. Why she’s still around, saving him from himself after all these years… he’ll never know.

It’s not his first panic attack, but it is the first one this year, at least. They still rip into him the same as when they started, when it first felt like the walls were closing in on him, like his breath was trapped in his chest, his body betraying him, or maybe helping him to get the fuck out of this world. Julia had wanted him to go into therapy, but that shit doesn’t work. He should know; he’s been to dozens of therapists in his life, several clinics. He’d compromised with the pills from Lipson, which he still takes daily. Well, usually daily.

The image of Alice, sitting across from him in her favorite black lace dress, at that fancy restaurant, is burned into his brain. That night had been their last dinner out before she died. Celebrating their anniversary. Two years. He’d eaten the bone marrow and yeah, it was fucking amazing, and he’d eaten the chicken liver mousse and it was _not_ amazing and thank god they had a cheeseburger on the menu. Granted it was a fancy-ass cheeseburger made from Wagyu or something, but it was familiar, and that fucker melted in Quentin’s mouth and made his toes curl. He’d been wearing that same blazer that he still had in his closet; it was the only thing he had at the time that was nice enough to wear to a fancy restaurant.

He should get rid of it. Burn it.

But he hasn’t. And he knows why. It’s a reminder. Of their last good night together. That they’d had so many good times before it all came crashing down.

After dinner he and Alice had gone on one of those horse carriage rides through the city; Quentin could still remember her blazing smile, how she bounced on the balls of her feet as she petted the horses trussed to the front of the buggy.

That night had been a reprieve for them. That last glorious moment of silence, when the air smelled so amazing, right before the rain and thunder and lightning washed away any semblance of peace left in Quentin’s life. Looking back, Quentin should have known. He’d felt so _good_ that night, like anything was possible. A contrast to the prior few months, which they’d spent in a perpetual, circular argument. Over that damned spell. Alice wanted to try it so badly; she was convinced Charlie was still out there somewhere. Quentin thought it was too dangerous.

She was right. And so was he.

That night features in his dreams often; sitting with Alice at the restaurant table or in the horse carriage. It always starts off sweet and loving, just how he wants to remember her. And then, inevitably, his Alice will disappear, replaced by the niffin. Taunting him, ripping him apart, wearing Alice’s smile with nothing of her underneath. In his head, Quentin just sits there and takes it. Sometimes he smiles at the niffin, like it’s perfectly normal, just another night with the fucking evil spirit that consumed his girlfriend from the inside out, living in her skin.

What else should he do? He deserves it. Every word. Every shitty, sad, bitter, angry, horrifying dream. That he has nearly every night.

Except the nights he’s with Eliot, when Quentin falls asleep in his arms. It’s only happened three times, enough for Quentin to know it’s not a coincidence. Those few nights, there are no nightmares, no death or sadness. He rests. When he wakes up, he feels alert. Rejuvenated. The best he’s felt in years.

Once he put it all together, he immediately stopped falling asleep with Eliot. He was able to blame it on the incident with Penny almost catching them, but really it just scared Quentin shitless.

He _wants_ to stay. Desperately. Fuck, he relives those few memories daily, of coming back to reality with one of Eliot’s thighs pressed between his, his head pillowed on Eliot’s chest, nuzzling into Eliot’s neck as he slowly comes awake. And that morning when he’d slid Eliot’s soft cock into his mouth, felt it stiffen against his tongue as Eliot sleepily threaded his fingers through Quentin’s hair—it’s one of Quentin’s favorite memories. Even without how incredibly fucking hot it was, to have that level of intimacy, of trust with someone, built up so fast...

But it’s the most dangerous habit. Beyond the liquor, drugs, and (until recently) promiscuous sex, his addiction to Eliot is the one that terrifies him the most. There are times he thinks he might die before making it to his next dose; the next text message, lingering glance on campus, or fingertips brushing in the hall. If he indulges in Eliot, allows himself to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep with warm, strong arms tight around him, he’ll never want to stop. He wouldn’t _be able_ to stop.

And this will _have_ to stop. Sooner or later. Eliot will graduate, move up and on into bigger and better things, and Quentin will remain at Brakebills, the same lonely, depressed professor he was before Eliot tumbled into his life. That’s who he is now. That’s who he’ll be for the rest of his life.

After a few minutes, he feels less clammy and his heartbeat has slowed down. He goes to his bathroom and takes a Xanax—tonight definitely calls for one. He hears his phone buzzing from the bathroom; it’s still on the floor. He picks it up to see another text—this one from Eliot.

_Eliot [9:17pm]_

_Did you know that between the hours of 11PM and 1AM Uranus is at its most visible in the night sky above Asheville? ;)_

Quentin can’t stop the smile that forms on his lips. He drops down onto his bed, next to his half-packed suitcase.

_Quentin [9:18pm]_

_You learn that in Astronomy class?_

_Eliot [9:18pm]_

_Sadly, no. I probably would have passed the first time if they spent more time on Uranus._

God, Quentin should not find this funny. But he can’t stop the soft laugh that bubbles up, the pressure that’s weighing on his chest slowly starting to dissipate. He leans back on his bed, phone in his hand.

_Quentin [9:19pm]_

_You think I need to pack a suit?_

_Eliot [9:19pm]_

_Mmm, I’d be perfectly fine if you didn’t pack any clothes at all. But since you ask, you know how I feel about you in a suit… :P_

Quentin smiles. Eliot had _really_ enjoyed making Quentin try on the suits he’d picked out for him. So much so that Quentin can hardly actually wear them without blushing.

_Quentin [9:20pm]_

_I’ll pack two._

_Eliot [9:20pm]_

_Can’t wait. See you tomorrow, beautiful._

Quentin remains on the bed, staring at the dark phone in his hand. Hardly ten minutes ago he’d been curled up into a ball on the floor. Now he’s smiling, flirting, which is absurd, that Eliot can have that much of an effect on him. But he doesn’t know how to change that… and doesn’t really want to, anyway. He glances up at his bulletin board above his desk, at the picture on the bottom right, secured with a white thumbtack. He and Alice, arms wrapped around each other, smiling at the camera.

Just like that, he can feel that familiar tightness return. The smile melting off his face. That soft voice in the back of his head— _It’s only a matter of time. He’ll get tired of you. Just like I did. I_ wanted _to niffin out. I had so much potential that I could never reach with_ you _dragging me down._

Quentin swallows hard, closing his eyes as that familiar weight settles on his body. Reminding him. Eliot, and whatever relief he brings to Quentin’s life, is temporary. Fleeting. That heaviness, that fucking anvil on his chest, it’s here to stay.

Eliot makes him forget. And as he gets up and continues to pack his suitcase, Quentin thinks he can do this. He can forget for a few days.

It’ll all be right here waiting when he gets back.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 9: Section 5.3 - Flow Chart C - Falling Deeper Without Recommended Emotional Cognizance


	9. Section 5.3 - Flow Chart C - Falling Deeper Without Recommended Emotional Cognizance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood board made by the lovely [AmbiguousPenny](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/ambiguouspenny).

_Eliot_

You never know how one might define ‘legit glamping.’ It could be anything from a shitty tent with planar compression spells inside to a decked out RV parked in the woods to a luxury AirBnB nestled on the shore.

Or there was always the possibility Margo had suggested: “I bet you a blowjob you’re gonna end up freezing your ass off in a van down by the river.”

Eliot has only met Julia a couple of times, but from how she carries herself and the way she seems to care for Quentin, Eliot is expecting less plastic tent and more luxury condo.

And Julia does not disappoint. When Quentin parks the rental car in the driveway, he and Eliot stare at the quaint two-story home through the windshield. The outdoor lights are on, as the sun slowly sinks behind the distant mountains. A wooden porch wraps around the home, along with an extended balcony, and the red door and window frames complement the grey stone and wood exterior. The lot is surrounded on three sides by a shallow creek, and as Eliot steps out of the car and into the chilly winter air, he sees a fire pit set in the ground not far from an outdoor staircase that leads up to the back patio area.

It looks exactly like a smaller version of the fancy lake houses he and his dad would drive by on the way to the farmer’s market, in their old truck loaded up with eggs and hand-churned butter. Eliot always imagined what the inside of those houses looked like, picturing immaculate marble countertops, soft couches and warm, fuzzy blankets. Very different from his own drafty, rundown house where he shared a room with his brother and slept beneath moth-eaten blankets.

“You said Julia’s wife got this place from a friend?” Eliot asks as they climb the stairs and Quentin opens the lockbox with the code Julia had given him.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, fiddling with the key. “Kady has connections all over the coast, and got it as a favor or something.”

“Must be some connection,” Eliot says, his eyes widening as Quentin opens the door and they step through the threshold. It’s warm—the owners must have come over earlier in the day and turned up the thermostat. “‘Glamping’ is not the word I would use to describe this place.”

The ‘cabin’ is one of the nicest homes he’s ever seen—a two-bedroom, two-story building full of honeyed wood and soft, overstuffed furniture. It’s not huge, and the space is well utilized—the first floor has the main living area, with two large couches and a coffee table in front of a large television set. A wooden staircase behind one of the couches leads to the second floor. The kitchen, full of brand-new stainless steel appliances, is tucked right under the stairs. And there are, indeed, black marble countertops, and a small bar with a few barstools. An old-fashioned fireplace with a black chimney leading to the ceiling is nestled in the corner, with a soft, white fur rug on the floor in front of it.

Eliot is going to fuck Quentin on that rug. Or Quentin is going to fuck Eliot. Whatever, someone is getting fucked on the white fur rug in front of a roaring fire.

The night sky can be seen through the tall windows, and patio doors give access to the porch. Eliot is sure that if he’s quiet enough, he’ll be able to hear the water babbling from the nearby creek in any room in the house.

Eliot can instantly picture Quentin curled up on the couch reading, while Eliot busies himself in the kitchen. Or sitting outside by the fire pit, curled up under a blanket with Quentin, as Eliot points out all the constellations Quentin probably already knows because he passed Astronomy on the first try. It’s almost startling, how quickly those pictures form in his mind.

“Wow,” Quentin says, taking in the space. “This is nice.” He looks at Eliot, surprise on his face. Eliot doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it clearly wasn’t this.

Eliot can’t help but grin back. “I believe I was promised a hot tub?” He crosses the kitchen to the side door that leads to a small patio. The cold air hits him as he steps outside, but he hardly feels it as he looks around. The ‘backyard’ consists of sparse trees that lead down to the small creek that does babble delightfully. The forest is denser beyond the creek, full of tall hickory and pine trees with bare, spindly branches, the fall weather having stripped them of their leaves.

It’s all very beautiful, but Eliot sees something much more gorgeous pushed up against the cabin wall—a small hot tub, with plenty of room for two. Eliot steps over to it, lifting one corner of the heavy cover on top. In the dim patio light, he can just barely see the blue interior shining through clear water.

Quentin follows him outside, reading from a paper in his hand. “The owners left instructions for how to use it. Says it’s ready to go, just have to take off the cover and let it warm up.”

“Nice,” Eliot says, letting the cover fall back into place. He turns to Quentin, making a show of eyeing him from head to foot. “We’ll put it to good use.”

Quentin smirks at him, and then looks around the patio. There’s a pile of firewood to the left of the door, and a table and chairs sitting near the grassy edge of the cement slab.

“Let’s go check out the bedroom.” Eliot smiles playfully at Quentin, who rolls his eyes, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. How Quentin can say the filthiest things to Eliot with no hesitation, but still blush at a casual mention of the bedroom delights Eliot to no end.

Both bedrooms are on the second floor, the master leading into a huge bathroom with a large, marble shower (complete with a bench along one side, which Eliot is already making very sexy plans for) and a walk-in closet. The second, smaller bedroom has sloped ceilings, and the entire interior is decorated with warm, homey paintings and muted colors.

They put their bags in the larger bedroom, and Quentin unlocks the patio door that leads to the balcony. He steps out, Eliot following him.

The dark sky is spread out above them, stars beginning to twinkle in the inky blackness. Quentin steps up to the railing, gazing out into the dark forest surrounding the cabin. The only sounds Eliot hears are the creek lightly flowing below and birds fluttering through the trees. Though the city of Asheville is only minutes away, it feels like they’re completely alone here; like there isn’t another soul for miles.

Eliot stops beside Quentin, slides an arm around his shoulders. Quentin immediately leans into him, tucking neatly into his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. The top of his head brushes Eliot’s chin, and Eliot tilts his face down, presses a kiss to Quentin’s scalp. Breathes in his familiar scent, clean linen and Dove soap. Quentin hums contentedly, snuggles in closer. Eliot can see their breath mingle in the cold air as they inhale and exhale, a tiny cloud that forms and disappears before his eyes.

A memory bubbles up inside Eliot’s brain, of Quentin’s fingers wrapped around his wrist when they mended the watch in the Observatory Tower. The completeness of Eliot’s magic intertwining and fastening with Quentin’s when they fixed the piano in the cottage. A tiny click, a feeling of fulfillment echoing deep inside him. Eliot’s fingers tighten on Quentin’s shoulder; he doesn’t think they’ve ever done this. Just stood and held each other with no climbing heat scorching them, no desperation to drown in each other before time runs out and they have to separate again. Just the two of them with no urgency, no need to be anywhere but right here, right now.

Much too soon, Quentin pulls away. “What do you want to do for dinner?” he asks Eliot, head tipped back, chin on Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot shoots him a wry grin, and Quentin rolls his eyes, though he smiles back. “We should probably go into town before we get too… distracted,” he says, his palm sliding into Eliot’s jacket, resting against Eliot’s back. “No food in the house.”

“We’ll need our energy,” Eliot says, dropping a kiss on Quentin’s lips. It feels so fucking good, to hold him like this. “You think we’re far enough away from Brakebills to go out to dinner?”

Quentin inhales softly and smiles up at Eliot. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He pushes up and presses his lips to Eliot’s, then pulls away, walking back to the bedroom.

“Good,” Eliot says, following Quentin, his eyes dropping to Quentin’s ass as he walks away. He really cannot wait to get into that hot tub. “I’ve always wanted to take you on a date.”

Quentin looks back at Eliot over his shoulder as they walk down the stairs. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Eliot confirms, crowding Quentin as they reach the front door. Quentin looks up at him, his nose still slightly red from the cold, his eyes bright and open, and Eliot leans down and places a chaste kiss on his lips. As they walk out the front door, Eliot says, “I did some research, and there's a tapas restaurant just twenty minutes away…”

~~~

Eliot has wondered what it would be like to go out on a date with Quentin. He’s thought about it a lot, actually. There are so many sides to Quentin—the awkward, brilliant professor who effortlessly casts spells Eliot has never even heard of. The goofy nerd who responds to his flirtatious texts with Star Wars quotes. The confident, seductive man that knows exactly how Eliot likes his dick sucked, knows precisely how to fuck Eliot, to get him so fucking close, the angle that will push him right _there_ , to the edge, just so he can slow down, drag it out until Eliot is nearly sobbing with need.

The Quentin that sits across from him in the small restaurant, candlelight flickering across his face, is a mixture of all three. When they first sit down, Eliot finds himself nervous, almost giddy. He sees the same sentiment in Quentin’s nervous smile, the way his eyes search the restaurant like he’s expecting the hostess to walk over and fire him from Brakebills.

“Hi,” Eliot says after the waiter has taken their drink order, extending his leg under the table, softly pressing his ankle against Quentin’s. The table is small enough that he could reach over and place his hand over Quentin’s, but that feels too bold, too public. He can settle for playing footsie under the table.

Quentin turns to him, his brown eyes bright behind his wire-rimmed glasses; his hair is pulled back in that damn little bun, and he reaches up to tuck one loose strand behind his ear. “Hi,” he says back, leaning forward slightly over the table. “I keep waiting for Henry to pop out from behind a plant,” he says in a low voice.

Eliot chuckles, glancing around the restaurant. It’s not very busy, and no one is paying them any attention, too focused on their food or conversation. “I think we’re safe,” Eliot says, leaning in closer. Eliot looks down at the table, back to Quentin. “It is weird. Being here with you. Where everyone can see. But it’s nice.” He rubs his foot up and down Quentin’s ankle, smiles when he sees a slight blush appear across Quentin’s cheeks.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, laying one hand on the table. Eliot glances down at it, then back up to Quentin’s face, which wears a soft smile as he studies Eliot. “It is nice.” Out of the corner of his eye, Eliot can see Quentin’s fingers twitch against the table.

“So,” Quentin says after a moment, “I’ve never had tapas,” he says, like he’s confessing a special secret.

Eliot laughs, and gives in, reaching over to drag his fingers over the knuckles of Quentin’s hand. Quentin’s fingers flex under his touch, and his gaze drops to Eliot’s lips as Eliot responds. “Well, Lizette on Yelp said their spicy chorizo is to die for. Hopefully it lives up to the hype.” Eliot pulls his hand back so it rests on the table, inches away from Quentin’s. Quentin brings his feet together, trapping Eliot’s ankle in between them. “Julia never brought you out for tapas? She seems like the type.”

Quentin looks down at the table, still smiling. It’s the most Eliot’s seen him smile while he’s sober. Which, Eliot realizes, this is the longest he’s ever seen Quentin sober, outside of class—they’d shared some pot before they left through the portal this afternoon, but Eliot doesn’t think he’s had a drink all day. That’s about to change, as Eliot’s wine and Quentin’s beer are on the way, and Eliot didn’t pack that expensive bottle of whiskey and his favorite Cabernet for nothing. But he likes it, to not have his time with Quentin halfway blurred by an alcohol-fueled haze.

“She’s dragged me to plenty of restaurants, but no, not tapas. Seems like her speed though; she drives Kady crazy when she wants to eat off everyone’s plate.” The waiter arrives with their drinks, and Eliot orders a first round of small plates for them—Quentin had already told him he could handle the menu, which suits Eliot just fine.

“Tell me about them,” Eliot says, taking a sip of his wine. Quentin ordered a local Spanish draft, and he hums happily as he takes a drink. “Julia and Kady. You all went to Brakebills together?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “Us and Alice.” He seems surprised as he says it, like he hadn’t meant for those last words to slip out. Eliot immediately wants to latch on to it, try to find out exactly what happened that makes Quentin retreat whenever her name is mentioned, what shaped him into the man that seems to truly believe he isn’t worth loving. But by the way Quentin’s smile has slipped from his face, how his shoulders slightly tensed, Eliot knows Quentin would probably just withdraw more if Eliot pushed.

And the last thing he wants is for Quentin to pull away. These past few months, Eliot has fallen into a routine, one that he relies on more than he ever expected to. His days used to revolve around Margo, planning the next party, and chasing his next high. Now his orbit is forever changed, with Margo still the bright sun burning at his center, but everything else has fallen away, leaving Quentin in his peripheral, slowly altering his gravity. Eliot still plans parties, he still gets high, but those are small stars twinkling down at him, while Quentin is a celestial body obscuring more and more of his sky every night.

He hadn’t even realized it was happening, until it was already done. It was exactly what he didn’t want, to become so engulfed with someone his day wasn’t complete until he’d talked to him, touched him, smelled him. But here he was, spending New Year’s Eve not dancing with Margo at a lavish club (how he’d spent the previous two), but alone in a cabin in fucking Asheville, North Carolina with a man he can’t call his boyfriend, but is so much more than just a friend or a professor. He’d even gotten him a Christmas gift.

Which he’d not actually _given_ Quentin yet, but he’d packed it in his bag, hoping for the right moment.

Eliot pulls himself back to the table, to Quentin. He may not have expected to be here, but he can’t deny that he’s the happiest he’s been in months. Years.

“How long have she and Kady been married?” Eliot asks Quentin. And over plates of chicken fritters, grilled radishes, lamb skewers, peppers stuffed with goat cheese, Quentin tells Eliot about how he was Man of Honor at Julia and Kady’s small outdoor wedding one spring day nearly three years ago inNew Jersey.

“They were together a long time before they got married, off and on,” Quentin explains as he contemplates a bit of grilled asparagus. “I guess Kady was kind of, like, Julia’s bisexual awakening? And they met right when Julia discovered that, holy shit, magic is real, and she was going through a break-up with James, who she thought was the love of her life, but is just like the muggliest muggle… it was a whole thing.”

Eliot nods, his mouth full of peppered goat cheese (so fucking good, definitely worth four Yelp stars. Maybe even five). He hadn’t had anyone he had to lie to when he’d stumbled into his Brakebills exam—which should probably concern him more than it does. But he had cut ties with his family years before that, and there was no loyal BFF or boyfriend back then.

Not until his first year of Brakebills, with Margo. And his second year, with Mike.

Quentin continues, “I spent a lot of nights in the Attic while she cried over James or Kady or whoever and just... the state of her world, I guess. She and Kady didn’t really get serious until fourth year.”

“Ah, with graduation coming? Time to settle down?”

Quentin pauses, and takes a sip of his beer, like he’s contemplating how to answer. “Sort of,” he says finally, picking up his fork and pushing his food around his plate. “There was some intense stuff our fourth year. The kind that makes you realize what’s important in life.”

Eliot nods, again desperately wanting to poke and prod. But he has four more days with Quentin all to himself. He can be patient.

“She seems like a great friend,” Eliot says. “Really nice of her to set up this mini-vacation for you. Well, for you and _Nigel_.” Eliot smirks as Quentin rolls his eyes. “Whom she seems to really like. You must be saying _so many_ nice things about him to her.”

Quentin snorts. “Hardly.” At Eliot’s instant frown, he quickly corrects himself. “I mean, not like _that_ , I just try not to tell her anything at all. Because I have to lie to her, not… not because I don’t want to. If she knew I’d met ‘Nigel’ in Room 305 of the TP building, she’d be… a lot less enthused.” He glances at Eliot, then back to his food. “She just… likes to see me happy. It hasn’t happened in a long time.” He looks up at Eliot, almost hesitant.

That warm feeling blooms again in Eliot’s chest, that same click of fulfillment echoes inside his bones. He smiles almost bashfully, and opens his mouth to respond when Quentin rushes on.

“But anyway, um, yeah. She’s my best friend. Has been for a long time. I don’t know why she sticks around, honestly, with how much of a mess I am. But I’m lucky she has; I doubt I’d be sitting here with you right now, if not for her.”

Eliot’s mouth forms a thin line as Quentin’s words chase away the tenderness rising in his chest. The thought of a world where this night doesn't exist, where he and Quentin never know each other, makes his blood turn cold. He is eternally thankful for the existence of Julia Wicker.

This time, when he reaches over, he does thread his fingers through Quentin’s. “So she’s your Margo,” Eliot says lightly. He squeezes Quentin’s hand, and then releases it to pick up his wine and drain it. He’s not hungry anymore, and he wants at least one more glass before they leave. He rests his hand on the table after he sets his glass down.

Quentin smiles, leaning his elbows on the table. He extends one hand, his pinkie just touching Eliot’s hand. “She is,” he agrees. “So tell me about you and Margo,” Quentin says. “You two meet at Brakebills?” He signals to the waiter for refills as he leans back in his chair, looking at Eliot expectantly.

The corners of Eliot’s mouth quirk up, like they almost always do when he thinks of Bambi. “Yeah, we did. In the Cottage, just a few days after we were assigned there.”

_Eliot had been poking around in the liquor cabinet, trying to find any spirits that weren't atrocious, when a voice had called out from behind him—“Hey, tall, dark and hopefully handsome—can you grab that bottle of white up there for me? These shelves weren’t built to the scale of a normal person.”_

_He’d turned to find large brown eyes full of judgment being levied upon him, and he hadn’t been able to stop the smile that formed on his face. Something about Margo immediately called out to Eliot, the ferocity behind her gaze, the aura of call-me-short-I-fuckin’-dare-you. This kitty cat bites, and Eliot bets it felt amazing._

_“Here you go,” he’d said as he levitated the requested bottle into her waiting hand. “You may want to pop it in the fridge or grab some ice, if you want to enjoy the flavor to the fullest,” he’d told her, eyes twinkling._

_She’d fixed him with a look that told Eliot exactly where she stood on putting ice in her wine. Good girl. “That’s a nice trick,” she told him, gesturing from the shelf to the wine. “I have my own tricks, too.” Then she’d set the bottle on a nearby table, and moved her hands quickly and precisely over it. A little cloud of mist formed around the bottle, and then dissipated quickly. Eliot reached out and wrapped his fingers around it—the wine was now nicely chilled, and Eliot was sure it would taste delicious._

_Well. As delicious as a $9 bottle of Pinot Grigio from the corner grocery could taste, anyway._

“Cheap booze gets you just as drunk as the expensive crap,” Quentin says, smiling behind his $12 draft beer. At Eliot’s look, he says, “Sounds like you two hit it off immediately.”

Eliot smirked. “We did. We got a lot closer after Brakebills South; she was my trials partner. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

Quentin hums. “I remember you said you usually spend your breaks with her.” The unspoken question of _why?_ hangs over the table, a little thought bubble, soft and puffy. Instead of going for the obvious, though, Quentin asks, “Is she mad I took you away for New Year’s?”

Eliot nearly chokes on the gulp of wine he’d taken; as a matter of fact Margo had _not_ been happy when Eliot had told her about Quentin’s invitation. They’d had tentative plans to go to Paris, but Eliot knew her irritation had less to do with spending the New Year without him and more to do with _who_ Eliot would be spending the holiday with.

“Eliot,” she’d said after he’d casually told her Quentin had invited him to spend the holiday with him in Asheville, “Sorry to be a dramatic bitch, but. Where is this going?”

They had been in her bedroom; Eliot had stopped by after he’d gotten back from seeing Quentin. He’d looked at her over the top of the latest issue of Vogue, taken in her pretty, bare face, scrubbed of make-up and her silk robe, knotted at the waist. “To bed?” he said flippantly.

She’d walked over, grabbed the magazine out of his hands, and tossed it to the bed. “He’s your professor,” she’d said shortly, her eyes flashing.

“Technically, not anymore. I’ve passed Minor Mending and now Quentin is just another faculty member.” Eliot crossed his arms, leaned his head back against Margo’s headboard. He knew this conversation was coming, had been for weeks. Ever since that morning she’d stepped outside of her bedroom to find Eliot jamming his tongue down Quentin’s throat in front of the linen closet. She’d given him an earful about the definition of _discreet_ before telling him to keep it in his pants before someone else walked in on them.

Margo sat down on the bed, next to Eliot’s knees. She had that same fiery look in her eyes, the one that pulled him in right at the start. He liked it less when it was directed straight at him and not, say, Todd. “He’s your _professor,_ who you’ve been fucking on a regular basis for—what, three months now? You’re going to go to fucking—North Carolina? On goddamn New Year’s Eve? Who goes to _North_ _Carolina_ for New Year’s Eve when they could be in _Paris_? With _me_?”

Eliot pursed his lips, trying to stifle the immediate defensive wave that flamed up in his chest. “It’s been _two_ months, Bambi. Two months since, if I may remind you, _you_ forced Todd to slice the piano in half so you could _then_ force Quentin and I to be alone together to fix it.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Yeah well, I thought you’d just fuck and that would be it. You’d get it out of your system. Scratch your fucking itch. I didn’t think you’d start a _relationship_.”

“It’s not—”

Margo got to her feet, raising her hands to her hair like she may try to rip it out. “Oh my god, Eliot, if you tell me one more time it’s not a relationship, I’m going to kick you in the ballsack. You talk to him _every day_. You fuck _only_ each other. Your phone is never below 50% because God forbid your battery dies when _Quentin_ texts. And now you’re going away on a trip together. To fucking North Carolina.” She paced away from the bed, and then back, leveling Eliot with her steely gaze. “How much more domestic can you get?”

Eliot’s eyes dropped from Margo’s, his arms wrapping tighter around himself. _She was right._ As much as he tried to tell himself otherwise, he was much more wrapped up in Quentin than he ever intended to become.

Margo sat back down on the bed, this time right next to Eliot, and reached over, grabbing his hand. Eliot shifted, still not looking at her. Something was stinging in this throat, and his face suddenly felt very warm.

“Eliot.” She slotted their fingers together, and he hesitantly met her gaze. “I say this because I love you. Where is this going? What are you gonna do, blow him under his desk until you graduate? Sneak all over campus for the next year and a half? You _will_ get caught, not even I could pull off that shit for that long.”

Eliot had made a concentrated effort to _not_ think about that. He’d made sure to only think as far ahead as _Will we sneak into Q’s room or mine?_ or _Watch what you eat today, you might get fucked head over asshole tonight_. Anytime his thoughts may stray to the month, or even the week ahead, he’s reeled himself in, back into the right here, right now. Quentin may have told him he’s _important_ , but he’d also said _I can’t promise you anything_. This offer from Quentin, even though the trip was only two weeks away, was the farthest ahead they’d planned anything, the most they’ve talked about what could happen.

But when Margo looked at him with her wide, worried eyes, Eliot realized he couldn’t picture a future without Quentin. When Eliot thought of next term, he thought of days filled with classes, parties, and talking to Quentin. Graduation was just the marker for when he and Quentin could be free to be together In Real Life and not just behind closed doors. A future without Quentin is not one Eliot wants any part of.

A ball started to form in his stomach at that moment, brittle, crackling with anxiety. He tried to swallow it down further, put it out of his mind. _I can’t promise you anything_. Eliot had been living by that mantra for months and it’s been _fine_ , and that was what he’d keep doing.

He squeezed Margo’s hand, giving her a small smile, shrugging his shoulders. “He makes me happy, Bambi.”

“I know he does, Eliot.” Margo sighs, looking at their clasped hands. “And happiness looks really good on you. Not that you needed any help, but the cartoon birds fucking each other around your head and little hearts popping out of your ass really add to the whole ‘boy in love’ glow you've got going on.”

Eliot’s eyes widened, the ball in his stomach hardening, expanding, bolts of agitation shooting through his limbs. _Love_. Not even. “Um, can we not mention that word?”

“What word? Fucking? Ass?” Margo rolled her eyes dramatically. “Look, don’t get me wrong, you know I love the drama. But not when it involves the people I love getting hurt.” Her fiery expression dissolved as she looked at him, and she sighed softly. “You seem even happier than when....” She trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence for Eliot to know what she was going to say.

Mike. The last time he looked near this happy were those months with Mike. Which had nearly killed him, quite literally, when it all ended.

“Well, Bambi,” Eliot said, pulling her close, tucking her under his chin, “Even if this does blow up in my face, at least everyone will still be alive when the dust settles.” Margo had tensed in his arms, and hugged him tighter. His voice low, Eliot had continued, “These violent delights will not have violent ends.”

Sitting across from Quentin the restaurant, he remembers how Margo had pulled slightly away, frowned at him. “Why the fuck are you quoting Westworld at me?” Eliot had smiled and shrugged, and Margo had sighed, smiling sadly at him. “The dick better be worth all this bullshit. Because I’m going to cut it off if he hurts a hair on your head.”

Eliot had laughed and pulled her back into his arms. When they’d arrived at the cabin, he’d texted Margo a few pictures (including one of the hot tub). She’d responded with a selfie, flipping him the bird, in front of the Eiffel Tower. _Love you, too_ , he’d responded.

Quentin watches Eliot expectantly, and Eliot wonders what Quentin thinks of Margo. He knows it can’t be easy, knowing that someone out there could get you fired at any moment. Quentin is tapping on the side of his glass, fingers fidgeting, and Eliot doesn’t need to slide his foot against Quentin’s to know that his leg is probably bouncing under the table. “Margo is living it up in Paris,” Eliot says. “She was disappointed, I mean, who wouldn’t be, at the loss of my company? But, like your friend Julia, she also likes to see her best friend happy, so...” He trailed off, taking another large sip of his wine, watching Quentin out of the corner of his eye.

Quentin’s mouth pulls up into a slight smile, and then he drains the last of his beer. “Wanna head out?” he asks. At Eliot’s nod, he signals to the waiter for the check.

They bicker over the check, until Eliot agrees to let Quentin pay, as long as Quentin lets Eliot pay for the groceries for the stay. Like it mattered, money wasn’t really hard to come by for Magicians (god knows Eliot isn’t above hitting up the random ATM), but it’s the principle of the thing.

They find a Trader Joe’s nearby, where Quentin’s eyes widen as he watches Eliot select flour, eggs, various cheeses, milk… “You know we’re only here for four days, right? I figured we’d just eat out, or order in.”

Eliot fixes him with an exasperated look. “You present me with that gorgeous kitchen and expect me to not use it?” He shakes his head at Quentin, who smiles, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “I’ll bring whatever we don’t use back to the cottage.” He picks up a container of mushrooms, looking at Quentin speculatively. “What do you like on your pizza?”

Quentin shrugs. “Um. Mushrooms? Pepperoni. Oh, pine—”

“Stop,” Eliot says immediately. “Do not finish that sentence and let us pretend I never asked.” He pushes the cart forward and Quentin follows, a little smile on his face.

It takes all of ten minutes after they make it back to the cabin and have put everything away before Eliot is outside, flipping the cover off the hot tub and powering it up. It’s cold out, just below freezing, but the water will keep them plenty warm. He leaves a few towels on the edge of the tub, and puts up a temperature ward, just inside the patio but stopping short of the actual sauna, so they won’t freeze their asses off in the moments between house warmth and hot tub warmth.

Eliot walks back in to find Quentin on the couch, a familiar little wooden box open in front of him on the coffee table. He’s barefoot, his hair loose around his shoulders, his jacket tossed over the back of the couch, and is packing a pipe with weed. Eliot strips his jacket, laying it on top of Quentin’s before he sits down next to him. Eliot presses one thigh against Quentin’s as he wraps an arm around Quentin’s back. “Hot tub should be ready soon,” Eliot says. “Which strain is that?” _Technically_ they’re not supposed to smoke in the cabin, per the ‘rules’ displayed near the door, but a few spells will take care of any evidence they ever indulged indoors.

Quentin leans into Eliot as he tuts, carefully using the flame he’s conjured to light the pipe. “It’s one of Josh’s, I can’t remember what he calls it, but it should make our time outside more… fun,” he finishes, glancing quickly at Eliot.

Eliot reaches over, slides his palm up the inside of Quentin’s thigh as he brushes Quentin’s hair back over his shoulder. “I like the sound of that.”

Quentin’s legs spread wider, and he nearly drops his pipe as Eliot’s mouth descends on his neck, pressing wet kisses into his warm skin. “We may not make it to the hot tub,” he says, tilting his head to give Eliot better access. Eliot’s hand slides up an inch, squeezes Quentin’s inner thigh. “I rolled you a joint,” Quentin says, gesturing to where it sits on the coffee table.

Eliot grins into Quentin’s neck, giving his thigh one last squeeze before he reaches for the joint. He lights it as Quentin takes a puff on his pipe. “We are absolutely making it to the hot tub,” Eliot tells him, leaning back against the couch, one arm along the back. Quentin nestles into his side, and it’s not long before Eliot feels like he’s drifting on a fluffy cloud. His limbs are so light, like they could detach and float away from his body, but he’s also very aware of every inch of Quentin’s body pressed up against his own. Even through their clothes, which need to disappear very soon, the warmth of Quentin’s skin is nearly burning into Eliot’s.

Quentin nuzzles into Eliot’s neck, taking a final hit off his pipe before setting it, and his glasses, down on the coffee table. He reaches up and pulls Eliot’s face to his, slowly exhaling the smoke into Eliot’s mouth. Eliot breathes it in, shudders as sparkles dance along every spot Quentin is touching on his face and neck. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment, and then exhales up above them. The room is hazy, warm and sensual, like they’re wrapped up in a soft aura of contentment and bliss. Eliot tuts away the stub of his joint, and leans down to kiss Quentin, lick into his mouth. Quentin threads his fingers through Eliot’s hair, moans, feels like he’s nearly vibrating in Eliot’s arms.

“God, you feel like a dream,” Quentin whispers, pushing closer to Eliot, trying to clamber onto his lap. “Soft and warm.”

“No so soft,” Eliot says, taking Quentin’s hand and guiding it to his hardening cock. “Fuck,” he says as Quentin immediately grinds his palm down, and _goddamn_ that languid touch directly on his dick, even through his pants, sends carnal waves of heat into his thighs, his hips, down his legs, making his fucking toes curl, has his head spinning.

“Okay, hot tub. Now.” Eliot stands up, pulling Quentin with him. He’s kissing Quentin, unbuttoning his shirt when Quentin catches up to what’s happening and grunts in protest.

“The hot tub is far away,” he says, slurring his words slightly as he unbuckles Eliot’s belt. Eliot stumbles backwards, pulling Quentin with him to the patio door. Quentin’s shirt hits the floor as Eliot tries to get his own off. “I don’t have a bathing suit,” Quentin says, his arms wrapping around Eliot’s waist, trying to kiss Eliot’s neck, not at all helping with the get-naked scenario Eliot is trying to create. Jesus, Eliot is trying hard to remember why he wanted to go _outside_ in the _cold_ when it’s so _warm_ and _electric_ in here and _fuck_ Quentin’s teeth are scraping down his throat and he’s being set on fire from within.

“No suits,” Eliot says. “Naked,” he adds, because two-word phrases are the most he’s capable of at the moment. He finally manages to get his shirt somewhere that is not on his body, and Quentin’s hands are dragging all over his back, he’s pushing up on his toes and capturing Eliot’s lips in a dirty kiss, pressing his bare chest against Eliot’s, and Eliot thinks this must be what drowning feels like—overwhelmed, engulfed, gasping for air.

Eliot manages to not fuck Quentin up against the patio door (and the white fur rug was only a few feet away, so tempting, but dammit he’s going to check hot tub sex off his Coldwater bingo card) and they clumsily stumble out to the hot tub, losing their pants and socks on the way. They almost tumble in, laughing, but any amusement quickly fades as Quentin wastes no time climbing into Eliot’s lap and straddling him, sitting on his thighs. The water reaches up to Eliot’s chest, the jets creating frothy waves gently spinning around them as Quentin stares down at him, his eyes so dark they’re almost black, and he wraps his fingers around Eliot’s hard dick.

“Fuck,” Eliot says, unable to stop from thrusting up into Quentin’s fist. His grip is tight, the water not as lubricating as he’s used to, but _fuck_ it’s good. Everywhere Quentin’s body touches his—fingers pressing into Eliot’s scalp, his lips sliding over Eliot’s neck, his nipples dragging against Eliot’s chest, his hand stroking Eliot’s cock—waves of pleasure crest throughout Eliot’s body, desire burning in his veins as his mind whites out, focusing only on Quentin’s touch permeating every pore.

By the time they stumble back into the house an hour later on trembling legs, leaning on each other, Eliot is dazed, mostly sober, and exhausted in the satisfied way that settles deep in his bones. They barely take the time to make sure all the clothes they shed on their way to the hot tub are at least in the house before they clamber up the stairs.

Quentin staggers into the bathroom while Eliot grabs his robe and thumbs through his phone until Quentin comes back. Quentin falls straight into bed, sighing happily as he crawls under the covers naked. Eliot smiles fondly at him before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. He really should shower, but the bed (and the naked man within) is calling out to him.

He leaves the bathroom, shutting off the bedroom lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The night sky is visible through the doors that lead to the balcony, and Eliot gazes at it for a moment. The last place he could see the stars so clearly was back home, in Indiana. The sky doesn’t seem so large even at Brakebills. He shakes the thought out of his head and closes the curtains so the morning sun doesn’t wake them too early.

He turns to the bed, where Quentin’s head is buried in his pillow. His hair, fluffy from the drying spell Eliot had clumsily applied when they climbed out of the tub, is splayed across the white sheets. Eliot’s heart does that thing it always does when Quentin sweeps him away, a cartwheel or a backflip or an entire gymnastics routine. Eliot has never really gotten to see Quentin when he sleeps; the few times he’s stayed over Eliot always fell asleep first, and Quentin always woke before he did. His body seems to only need a few hours of sleep a night to function. He’s mentioned dreams to Eliot before… Eliot hopes he can rest over this trip—Eliot definitely has plans to wear him out (mission accomplished for day one). From the permanent crease in Quentin’s brow and the dark circles that never seem to go away, he certainly seems to need it.

Eliot crawls into the bed next to Quentin, looks down at his face in the moonlight streaming through the window above the bed. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open with one arm tucked under the pillow. His face is entirely peaceful, so different from how he looks in class or generally any time he’s awake.

Eliot gently reaches over and pushes a few strands of Quentin’s hair out of his face, behind his ear. Quentin stirs, his hand coming up to catch Eliots, tug him closer. “Mmph. Come ‘er.”

Eliot slides closer to the middle of the bed, half-smiling as Quentin throws a leg over his and rests his head on Eliot’s shoulder. He presses a lazy kiss into Eliot’s collarbone, his hand splayed out over Eliot’s belly.

Eliot runs his hand up and down Quentin’s bare back, drops a kiss on top of his head. Within minutes, Quentin’s body settles down, his breathing evens out, and Eliot knows he’s asleep.

Eliot closes his eyes, Quentin’s weight warm and comforting. The past few hours play through Eliot’s mind—dinner at the restaurant. _She just likes to see me happy._ Grocery shopping. Hot tub sex under the influence of mind-altering substances. Not a bad first date.

Only three more nights left. Eliot knows he should savor them while he has them.

~~~

_Quentin_

The first thing Quentin registers when he slowly comes into consciousness is the sour taste in his mouth—like cotton soaked in beer that’s been left out too long. The second is the hand trailing up and down his back. The third is the line of drool dribbling out of his mouth and onto the warm surface he’s laying on. Which, he discovers as he slowly raises his head, is Eliot’s chest.

“Shit,” he says, the word coming out broken, like he hasn’t used his voice in hours. He glances up at Eliot, who’s looking at him in amusement, his phone in the hand that isn’t resting on Quentni’s back. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, wiping Eliot’s chest with the bedsheet.

“It’s okay,” Eliot says, smiling. “You know I’m a sucker for cute boys who drool all over me.”

Quentin stretches, his arms over his head and his toes pointing as his muscles practically sing with the movement. The last vestiges of sleep fall away, and he feels good, save for the mild headache and morning breath. He lays flat on his back, pressing his head into the soft pillow. He looks up at Eliot, who is now sitting up in bed, smiling softly. He’s set his phone on the mattress next to him, apparently having decided that Quentin is much more interesting to look at.

Eliot’s hair is fluffy and tousled, sticking out in all directions. He’s wearing boxers and his black and gold robe, and Quentin half-hopes Eliot brought one for him; wearing Eliot’s robes has turned into one of his favorite things. They’re ridiculously soft and always smell like him.

Right now that robe is half-open, revealing an enticing view of his firm chest and a light smattering of dark hair from his collarbone nearly to his navel. The very slight shadow of stubble on his jaw gives him that rugged look that _of course_ he pulls off flawlessly, even when he’s lounging around in a silk robe in bed.

Quentin wants to reach up and drag his fingers across Eliot’s chin, feel the stubble beneath his fingers, when something tugs in his mind. A memory, or remnants of a dream from the prior night drift across his brain. A ghost of an image, of sitting next to Eliot on a couch, tipping his face over towards his own, but that’s it. He can sense that there were people there with them, but he doesn’t know who. Eliot's face looks just as it does now, tender and open, affection shining in his gaze.

He’s still staring at Eliot, not really seeing him, when Eliot pushes a through Quentin’s hair, brushing it away from his face. “You still asleep?” Eliot asks. “You were out pretty hard. Barely moved except for when I got back in bed and you decided I was a pillow.”

Quentin catches Eliot's eye and smiles. “You’re the best pillow,” he says, reaching up and running his palm down Eliot’s arm. His mind is still whirling, trying to capture anything more from his dream—but it’s already gone. Which is very different from most dreams he has when he’s alone.

The smile drops off Quentin’s face as he waits for the stab of guilt in his chest, the burning sensation that wells up in his throat when his subconscious reminds him of everything it conjured up while he slept.

But this morning, there’s only a quiet contentment in his heart, and a slight, irritating pounding in his temple. Eliot is still peering down at him, and Quentin, squirming under his gaze, blurts out, “I dreamed about you. Um. I think.”

Eliot smirks at him, even though his eyes tighten slightly. “Good dream?” he asks, his fingers still tangling in Quentin’s hair. Little tingles are spreading through Quentin’s body, from Eliot’s fingertips down into Quentin’s scalp, his neck, his shoulders. His eyes flutter shut as Eliot continues, “More fun in the hot tub?”

Quentin chuckles, leaning into Eliot’s touch. “Mmmm, no, I don’t think it was that kind of dream. I can’t remember. It was good, though. I think.” He shifts closer, pressing his nose into Eliot’s hip, laying one arm over his leg. “I don’t think any dream could live up to the reality of the hot tub.”

He feels Eliot’s body shake as he chuckles. Quentin’s palm wraps around Eliot’s inner thigh, and Eliot shifts slightly, his legs opening wider. “True. It was intense.”

Quentin sighs, turning his face up to look at Eliot, fanning his fingers wide over Eliot’s upper leg. “I think Josh’s pot is why my mouth tastes like ass this morning. And why I have a headache. But it’s totally worth it.”

Everything after getting home last night is wrapped up in a golden haze, but Quentin can remember Eliot helping him into the hot tub, laughing as he almost fell in headfirst. Then straddling Eliot in the warm water, gripping his hard dick as Eliot’s hands palmed Quentin’s ass, his finger circling around Quentin’s entrance. Quentin could remember the intoxication of Eliot in his nostrils, filling up his hands, swirling in his mouth. Every sensation was magnified, soft gasps heady in his ear, Eliot’s hands and fingers filling him up, consuming him with an intensity Quentin had never experienced before.

Quentin’s body starts to respond to the memories, his cock stiffening up under the sheets, his hand inching higher on Eliot’s thigh. He’s wondering if his morning breath will really bother Eliot that much when Eliot pulls away, leaning over to the nightstand.

“Let’s take care of that headache before we get… distracted,” Eliot says. Quentin looks up to see Eliot holding a half-full glass of water and a couple of aspirin.

“Thank you,” Quentin says, sitting up. The sheet pools at his waist, and Eliot very obviously eyes his bare chest, the slice of thigh barely visible above the covering. Quentin swallows them with a gulp of water.

“How long have you been up?” Quentin asks, handing the water back to Eliot. Quentin leans against the headboard, against Eliot’s shoulder, suppressing the urge to reach over and scratch through his chest hair.

“Not long,” Eliot says, setting the glass and his phone on the nightstand. “Just enough time to make coffee and get drooled on. I made you a cup; kept it warm for you.” Quentin can see a full mug of coffee sitting next to Eliot’s half-empty one.

“You made me _coffee_?” Quentin says, his eyes bouncing between the mug and Eliot. “And brought it to me in bed?”

Eliot smirks. “I made _us_ coffee in bed. I had to press an entire button on the machine; it was exhausting. You want it?”

“God, yes, I don’t want all that effort to go to waste,” Quentin says, taking the mug that Eliot passes to him. Coffee is an essential start to his day, even if for today it’s more habit than any real need for caffeine. It’s delicious, cutting through the sour taste on his tongue. “You even made it just how I like it,” he says, turning his wide eyes on Eliot.

Eliot preens under the praise, even as he says, “Well yes, it is hard to remember to dump in a ridiculous amount of cream and sugar. No need to measure, just stop when it’s basically white.” Quentin elbows him in the side, grinning as he takes another large sip.

Eliot chuckles as Quentin leans back against the headboard, bending his leg under the covers until it bumps into Eliot’s. Eliot shifts closer, sliding his ankle over Quentin's.

Quentin quietly sips at his coffee as Eliot looks at his phone. The silence is comfortable, welcoming. He can hear birds chirping outside, and the morning sunlight is streaming through the cracks in the curtains. Eliot's hand slips under the sheet to rest lightly on Quentin's bare thigh. It’s a comforting touch, not heated, like he can’t have Quentin next to him and not touch him as much as possible.

It’s all ridiculously perfect.

_Enjoy it while you can. It’s all temporary._

The night before they came here comes back to Quentin in a rush; sitting on the floor of his bedroom, nearly pulling his hair out of his scalp as he tried to control his breathing. The Xanax he’d taken had calmed him down enough to finish packing and fall into bed, but his sleep had hardly been restful. Why now? What if he has another panic attack at the cabin? He wouldn’t have to worry about any future with Eliot; he’d turn tail as soon as he saw Quentin curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor.

The thought makes Quentin inhale sharply, the cup shaking slightly in his hand. He can feel Eliot’s eyes on him.

“You okay, Q?” Eliot asks, his hand lightly squeezing Quentin’s thigh.

“Yep,” Quentin answers immediately, his face growing warm. He sets his coffee aside, and slides his hand over Eliot’s. “Gonna go to the bathroom.” He climbs out of bed, grabbing a pair of underwear out of his bag on the way. He can feel Eliot’s eyes on his back until he closes the bathroom door.

He uses the bathroom, brushes his teeth, takes his pills. He washes his face, staring at it in the mirror. His eyes are bright, his skin not so pale; he can already see the difference one night of real rest makes on his face.

_Don’t get used to it._

It’s four days. _Only_ four days. And then they’ll go back to Brakebills, back to how it was before.

And that’s fine. He’s thankful for every moment he gets.

He walks out in his boxers, and Eliot is still in his same spot on the bed, his phone back in his hand. But resting on the comforter next to Eliot’s knees is a flat box, gift-wrapped in festive red and green paper with a golden bow on top.

“What’s this?” Quentin asks, approaching the bed, crawling back in on his side. A nervous warmth is crawling up his torso, spreading over his chest.

Eliot hums noncommittal, still looking at his phone. He sets it aside as Quentin slides over next to him. “Nothing, really. I saw something in London I thought you’d like.”

Quentin smiles at him incredulously, the tension rolling off his shoulders. He’d gotten gifts from Julia and Kady, but that was it for his Christmas list. “You got me a Christmas gift?” he asks. He thinks of that little watch chain in his bag that he has no plan at all for actually giving to Eliot.

Eliot shrugs. “Just a little something. Don’t get excited.” He reaches up and scratches at his scalp, tapping the fingers of his other hand against his thigh. Quentin recognizes his nervous ticks, and the wave of tenderness crests and crashes over him, even as alarm bells are ringing in his head. Eliot is approaching that ever-so-flimsy barrier Quentin has around his heart, but he can’t find it within him to care.

Quentin gently touches Eliot’s chin with his fingers, pulls his face over to his. The kiss is chaste, sweet; Eliot tastes like coffee and toothpaste, with that same intoxicating undercurrent that Quentin can only identify as _Eliot_.

“What is it?” Quentin asks as he pulls it over to him, hooking one finger in the wrapping on a corner.

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Open it and find out.”

Quentin tears at the wrapping, pulls the lid off the box underneath. It’s clothing—a gorgeous deep blue fabric that looks more expensive than anything in Quentin’s current wardrobe. He pulls it out, and sees that it’s a robe—an incredibly soft robe that feels like feathers against his skin.

“Holy shit, Eliot. You didn’t have to do this.” Quentin wastes no time in pulling it on. It’s not silk, but it’s just as decadent against his body.

“Well, I got tired of you stealing mine,” Eliot says. “You like it?” he asks hesitantly. Quentin turns to him and sees a small smile on his face, vulnerability in his eyes.

“I love it,” Quentin says. “I mean, it actually fits and doesn’t smell like you, but I can fix at least one of those things.” The sleeves are just the right length to tug down over his fingers. “I’ll probably still steal yours though. Sometimes.”

Eliot smiles and Quentin leans over, pressing his lips against Eliot’s. This kiss is far from chaste, Eliot pushing his tongue into Quentin’s mouth as he places his hands on Quentin’s neck, pulling him in tight. Quentin smiles, pulling away slightly as Eliot’s hands travel down to Quentin’s chest, wrapping around his waist.

“Mmph—I, uh—I may have something to give you,” Quentin says in between kisses.

“I bet you do,” Eliot says, sliding his hand in between Quentin’s legs, cupping his soft cock.

“Ha—no—um, god,” he gasps, his dick immediately responding. “Uh, like—fuck, a Christmas gift.”

Eliot breaks away immediately, his hand sliding to Quentin’s thigh. “You do?” he asks, surprised, not paying any mind to the fact that Quentin is already nearly panting in his lap.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, breathless. At Eliot’s expectant look, Quentin slides off the bed, stumbling over to his bag on the floor. “It’s not as nice as this robe, “ he says as he opens the front zip pocket of his suitcase, “but hopefully you can use it.”

Quentin pulls out the ziploc bag the watch chain was in—he hasn’t even gift-wrapped it. He’s suddenly nervous, adrenaline shooting throughout his body, which is stupid, Eliot literally just gave him a gift, so shut up brain, go bother someone else.

“Uh, sorry it’s not gift-wrapped,” he says, sitting down on the bed next to Eliot, setting the bag with the chain next to him on the bed. “Do you have your pocket watch?”

Eliot looks down at the bag in confusion, and then turns to his nightstand. He’s still looking at it as he grabs his pocket watch and hands it to Quentin. “Is it a bracelet?” he asks, confused.

“No,” Quentin says. He detaches the old chain that was attached to the watch and sets it aside. “It’s a watch chain,” he says, opening up the bag and pulling it out. He holds it against Eliot’s pocket watch, and the metal is a perfect match. “I added a few things to it.”

He walks Eliot through the enchantments on it—shows him the spell to attach/detach it, and the summoning charm. The confused expression on Eliot’s face changes to delight as the watch lights up under his fingers.

“I figured your watch would be less likely to suffer Margo’s wrath if she can’t take it away so easily,” Quentin tells him as Eliot tosses the old chain aside, and sets the watch, newly accessorized, on his nightstand next to his phone. “It was either this or a Target gift card…”

Eliot chuckles as he lays down, pulling Quentin on top of him. “Thank you,” he says, sliding his lips over Quentin’s. “I love it. Way better than a Target gift card. And not to be greedy,” he says as he reaches inside Quentin’s robe, sliding his palm into Quentin’s boxers, “but I’m pretty sure you _do_ have something else for me.”

Quentin’s eyes close as he gets lost in Eliot, as sunlight streams in and his coffee cools next to the bed.

~~~

After they make breakfast (Eliot handles the actual cooking while Quentin makes toast, something he feels he can handle), they spend most of the day lounging around the cabin in their robes and underwear, doing absolutely nothing. They talk about going outside, maybe for a hike, but talking about it is as far as that idea goes.

Quentin is lying on the couch, reading, his feet in Eliot’s lap as Eliot watches TV and texts Margo. As Eliot’s hand rests on Quentin’s ankle, Quentin can’t stop his mind from wandering. Besides Julia, it’s been years since he’s been so intimate with someone that they can just sit together in a room and not feel the pressure to talk, to fill the silence. The familiar touches—his ankle now, on his lower back when Eliot guided him through the restaurant door last night, or on his thigh that morning in bed—they’re writing a narrative in Quentin’s head, one that still has many more pages to go. Barely a day with Eliot, one night out together, in this little fantasy bubble, and he’s already starting to break. Starting to want more than he can have.

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring blankly at his book when he gets that familiar tingle on the back of his neck, like someone is watching him. He raises his eyes to meet Eliot’s, who’s gazing at him, half-smiling.

“So it’s been a day,” Eliot says, and Quentin lowers his book, shuts it. “Here at the cabin. You sick of me yet?”

Quentin looks at him in confusion for a moment, and then smiles as he remembers he and Eliot’s conversation when they’d discussed coming here.

_We’ve hardly spent more than four hours in a row together. We might make it through day one and realize we hate each other._

“No,” Quentin says. “But it’s only day one. The robe bought you like, at least one extra day.”

Eliot smiles, his thumb brushing over Quentin’s ankle. His eyes drop to Quentin’s chest, drift down his legs. “You look good in it.”

Quentin pulls the sleeves up over his hands, so the tips of his fingers are sticking out. “It’s the nicest gift I’ve gotten in a long time.” Julia always got him great gifts, usually something around his love of Fillory or something to make his office or room ‘more lively’ aka ‘less like no one lives there.’ Quentin loved anything someone cared enough to give him, but this robe made Quentin feel good in a way he’d never felt before. Knowing that Eliot had picked it out, just for him. It made him feel cared for. It was stupid, but he never wanted to take it off.

Eliot’s brow furrows as he contemplates Quentin’s words. “You usually only see Julia at Christmas?” He has both hands on Quentin’s legs now, lightly rubbing his shins and his ankles.

Quentin nods, stretching out his legs further into Eliot’s lap, sinking down into the couch so he rests his head back against the throw pillow. “Yeah. My mom wanted me to visit this year, but I didn’t go. She’s just… a lot, and we’re not even really close. She did call me after, with a nice guilt trip, though.”

Eliot nods. Quentin’s eyes drift shut as Eliot’s hands caress and move over his legs, the tops of his feet. There’s silence for a minute, and then Eliot says, “I avoid guilt trips by just not speaking to my family at all.”

Quentin eyes open to see Eliot staring ahead at the TV, where an episode of “Schitt’s Creek” plays on low volume. He looks completely relaxed, save the hard set of his jaw. His hands have stilled on Quentin’s legs, just resting lightly on his skin. “How long has it been since you talked to them?” Quentin asks.

“Years,” Eliot says, relaxing back into the couch. “I left as soon as I graduated high school. Headed into New York and never looked back.”

“Where are you from?” Quentin asks. He can’t read the look on Eliot’s face as he turns to him, and he suddenly feels like he’s intruding where he shouldn’t be.

“Indiana,” Eliot says. “Whiteland, Indiana, to be precise. A shitty farming town in the middle of bumfuck, nowhere.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, not sure what to say. “I assumed you were from…” he trailed off as Eliot’s fingers tightened on his ankle. _Somewhere big and fancy_.

“No,” Eliot said softly. “I spent my high school years getting up way too early to milk the cows and being routinely assaulted by my homophobic father.” He sighs slightly and sinks even more into the couch, almost like he’s deflating.

Quentin’s heart speeds up as he digests that information. It’s so different from what he imagined when he thought of Eliot growing up—he doesn’t know what he thought, really, maybe big city schools with the leading role in the school play, or a quiet, indie kid that grew into his personality in college. A kind of shame falls over him. He should have asked.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” He thinks of his own father—he was far from perfect, but he always supported Quentin however he could. Quentin has the urge to crawl over to Eliot, pick up his hand, thread their fingers together, draw him close—but he thinks that may make Eliot retreat. And Quentin wants to hear more, to know as much as Eliot is willing to tell him.

Eliot shrugs, his hands trailing the now-familiar path between Quentin’s ankle and his knee. Quentin doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being amazed by how much Eliot wants to touch him.

“It is what it is,” he says. He turns to Quentin, a familiar mask of indifference on his face. “Becoming me was the greatest creative project of my life.” The corner of his mouth pulls up in a half-smile. “Only Margo knows, because she was my partner in the trials. Everyone else… it’s just easier to let them go on thinking I grew up summering with the Kennedys.”

“Oh, well I never thought that,” Quentin says, flexing his toes under Eliot’s grip.

“No?”

“No, I always thought of you as more Kardashian than Kennedy.”

Eliot cracks up, leaning his head back against the sofa as he laughs. “Well, I can’t argue with that.” He runs his hand down his face, looks over at Quentin.

“You wanna smoke?” Quentin asks. Usually he smokes as soon as he wakes up, but today he hadn’t even thought of it yet. Talking with Eliot, thinking about his mom, has made him antsy, looking for relief.

“Sure,” Eliot says, watching as Quentin heads up to the stairs to their room.

Quentin checks his phone while he’s up there, it’s still laying on the nightstand. He has a few texts from Julia—she’d sent him some the night before that he hadn’t responded to.

_Julia [8:03am]_

_Sooooooooooooooo how was the first night?_

_Quentin [1:19pm]_

_Pretty fucking good. Thank you, Jules._

He gets a reply almost immediately. Several heart-eye emojis, followed by actual words.

_Julia [1:19pm]_

_Did you guys use the hot tub? What are you going to do today? Any plans for NYE??_

Quentin shakes his head, putting his phone down. He’ll text her back later. Something much more fun is waiting for him downstairs.

_~~~_

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Quentin yells into Eliot’s ear. Even though Quentin is practically on top of him, he’s sure Eliot can hardly hear him over the loud music blasting through the club speakers.

Quentin is way too used to hedge bars, with their sound wards so you can actually hear someone talk and spells that let you smoke inside and lighting that isn’t seizure inducing. When Eliot had suggested they “Uber into town for a drink,” Quentin had protested as that meant putting on pants, but Eliot reminded him about the suit he’d brought, and going out the night before New Year’s Eve would be much less crowded than going out on actual New Year’s Eve and then suddenly Quentin was in the middle of some gay bar that had stripper polls on each end that Eliot was eyeing way too seriously for Quentin’s liking.

Eliot smiles down at Quentin, his eyes blissed out and bloodshot, and he bumps his half-full plastic cup against the one in Quentin’s hand before taking a large gulp. His other hand is threaded through Quentin’s, and he uses it to tug Quentin closer. He leans down and kisses Quentin, deeply and thoroughly and _oh yeah_ , that’s why Quentin is here.

They’d just finished dinner, Eliot had made pizza from _scratch_ , dough and everything, and of course it was the best thing Quentin had put in his mouth in at least three hours. Then he’d batted those big hazel eyes at Quentin and said, “Come on, you didn’t bring those nice, tailored suits to just wear them around the _cabin_.” He’d walked up behind Quentin, sliding his hands around Quentin’s chest and kissed his neck, saying, “We can’t go out back home. We’ll just go to a muggle bar and have a few drinks and come right back. You can even pretend I’m one of your Grindr dates and you can’t wait to get me home to show off your _impressive_ stamina.”

The club was busy, it had taken ten minutes to get a drink, which was so watered down Quentin would need ten of them to even get tipsy. Eliot had popped a pill as soon as they’d walked through the door; Quentin’s was still in his pocket. He and Eliot had talked about it while they waited for the Uber—this was Eliot’s favorite to take when he went out dancing. As soon as Quentin had heard the word ‘dancing’ he had nearly tried to turn the Uber around, but Eliot wrapped his hand around the back of Quentin’s neck and slid the other up his inner thigh, and once again, Quentin was completely on board.

Quentin pulls the pill out and pops it in his mouth, draining the rest of his drink as he swallows it. He’s taken this one once or twice before, he’ll get a good high from it while still keeping his head on somewhat straight.

They’re standing near the edge of the dance floor, watching the crowd dancing, kissing, doing god knows what under the strobe lights. There are booths and tables scattered around the edge of the club, and more than one couple is tucked into the few dark corners that give the illusion of privacy. Eliot has an arm firmly around Quentin’s waist, slipped under his suit jacket, palm pressing into Quentin’s side. Quentin picked out the grey suit with the black and white polka dotted shirt, and Eliot had insisted he wear them with a pair of dark skinny jeans, which Quentin didn’t even remember packing. Eliot had slipped them into the ‘professional’ clothes he’d picked out for Quentin weeks ago, insisting they would “come in handy.” Eliot has certainly found them handy, as he slides his palm down Quentin’s waist to slip into one of his back pockets.

It’s not long before Quentin can feel the pill kicking in; the strobe lights seem to slow down and blend together, and any worries he had about drinking and dancing just float away. Eliot’s arm is tight against his body; Quentin leans harder into him and Eliot leans right back. Quentin tips his head back to see Eliot gazing down at him, dark eyes shining as the colorful lights play on his face. He’s dressed in a full suit, tie and vest, eyeliner making his eyes even sultrier than usual, and somewhere in the past 15 minutes he got glitter smeared on his cheeks. He looks magnetic, incandescent, devastatingly gorgeous, and Quentin has no idea why they’re here when they could be naked in a bed, on a couch, or on a white fluffy rug in front of the fire.

Eliot leans down and kisses Quentin, tongue thrusting into his mouth as his free hand cradles Quentin’s cheek. He uses the hand that is still in Quentin’s back pocket to pull Quentin flush against him, and Quentin lets out a little gasp, threading his fingers through Eliot’s hair. Eliot pulls away slightly, kissing his way over to Quentin’s ear.

“Will you dance with me?” he asks, his voice ragged. Quentin can just hear him over the pulsing music, and a shiver runs down his spine as Eliot’s hot breath caresses over his delicate skin. “You look so fucking good. I wanna show you off. Want everyone to see you. Then I wanna take you home and fuck you.”

Quentin’s dick instantly responds, just like it always does when Eliot’s voice gets that low timbre, that deep rasp that says he’s thinking only about his hands all over Quentin’s body. Quentin pulls away slightly, enough to meet Eliot’s eyes before he meets him in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. He grabs Eliot’s hand and pulls him out to the dance floor where they melt into the mass of sweaty, writhing bodies.

Quentin only dances when very high, very drunk, or apparently very consumed by Eliot. There’s no room for awkwardness or uncertainty when his mind is full of latent desire and desperate need, when his fingers are pulling Eliot’s tie out of his vest and using it to reel him in for a kiss, when Eliot’s hands are ghosting along his hips, his waist, his chest, threading into his hair. Sweat forms on his scalp, drips down his back as they move and grind against each other, a messy tangle of lips and fingers, two people lost in each other in a sea of strangers.

Quentin’s not sure how long they move together on the dance floor, random bodies pressing up against them from all sides. He’s sure some of the hands he feels running over his hips, ass, and neck aren’t Eliot’s, but he’s too far gone to care. He’s untucked Eliot’s shirt, his fingers are digging into the damp skin of Eliot’s back when he grinds against his thigh, and sucks in a breath at the firmness of Eliot’s cock through his pants. Quentin looks up into Eliot’s face, finds him staring down at Quentin, his pupils blown, lips slightly parted. His hands come up to Quentin’s face, his fingertips barely touching Quentin’s chin as his eyes shine with something that makes Quentin’s stomach flip. The music drops out, the crowd fades away as they stare at each other, Quentin’s heartbeat echoing in his ears as he thinks he wouldn’t change a single part of his miserable, fucked up life if it meant he got to be right here, right now with Eliot.

An idea forms in Quentin’s mind, and before he has the chance to actually think about it, he’s grabbing Eliot’s hand, pulling him off the dance floor and into one of the dark corners he’d noticed earlier. They’re behind the DJ booth, where the crowd is much more sparse. This area is mainly a walkway to get from one side of the club to the other. The music is still loud here, but not enough to make his body vibrate. They’re half-shrouded in darkness, but the dim lights around the perimeter of the club, and the ever present strobe lighting, provide enough light for Quentin to see what he’s doing.

Quentin gently pushes Eliot back against the wall, covering his mouth briefly with his own before turning away, raising and moving his hands in a practiced motion. He hears Eliot’s surprised laugh as he finishes the tut, the invisibility ward shimmering into place around them.

Quentin doesn’t even have time to ask _Is this okay? Can I suck your dick against the back wall of a dirty club?_ before Eliot’s hands are pulling him closer, his mouth against Quentin’s ear.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Eliot says, snaking one hand between them to cup Quentin’s hardening dick. Quentin bats his hand away, grabbing at Eliot’s belt buckle, pulling it open, lowering his zipper. “Can’t wait until we get home, baby? ”

Quentin slides his hand inside Eliot’s boxers, shoves them down to pull out his cock. “No,” he says, pressing the side of his face against Eliot’s, licking at his ear. He grips Eliot’s dick between them, strokes it once, twice. “I wanna make you come in my mouth. Right now.”

Eliot grips Quentin’s waist and a whispered “Fuck” falls from his lips. The music is still pulsing around them, lights flashing as people pass by them, none the wiser that Quentin has Eliot’s cock in his fist. It reminds Quentin of that first night on the sidewalk, their first kiss. When Quentin’s world had shifted on its axis and no one noticed. Not even him.

Quentin drops to his knees and wastes no time taking Eliot in his mouth, licking from base to tip, sucking the head of Eliot’s cock. He’s already fully hard, his dick trembling against Quentin’s tongue. He threads his hands through Quentin’s hair, tugs forcefully, drawing a moan out of Quentin’s full mouth. Quentin’s own cock is straining against his pants, damn skinny jeans that do nothing to hide his erection. Which is probably why Eliot likes them so much.

As Quentin works Eliot’s dick, taking him in until he bumps the back of Quentin’s throat, he can hear footsteps right behind them, voices yelling back and forth. A few people pass so close Quentin can feel the air shift as they walk. The thought that at any moment, someone could stumble through the ward and find Quentin on his knees with Eliot’s dick in his mouth sends a fervent bolt of desire straight through his body, makes his head swim as he works his tongue against the underside of Eliot’s cock.

Quentin can tell Eliot is close, his fingers are spasming in Quentin’s hair, his thighs trembling under Quentin’s hands. Quentin firmly presses Eliot against the wall, holding him in place as he looks up at Eliot’s face. He’s staring down at Quentin, colorful lights and shadow playing across his face as he watches Quentin suck his dick. Quentin slides his hands up Eliot’s hips, on his bare skin as he works his mouth faster, hollowing his cheeks and breathing through his nose. After a few more strokes, Eliot’s eyes snap shut and he comes down Quentin’s throat, his muscles fluttering under Quentin’s tight grip. Quentin works Eliot through it, swallowing his hot, salty come down his throat, letting Eliot’s cock fall out of his mouth only when Eliot pulls away. Quentin is wiping away the tears that have welled up when Eliot pulls Quentin to his feet, licking into his mouth like he always does after Quentin’s swallowed his come.

He kisses over to Quentin’s ear, turns them around so Quentin is the one pressed up against the wall. Quentin vaguely realizes Eliot is tucking his softening cock back in, buckling his belt when he rasps in Quentin’s ear, “How long does this ward last, baby?” He presses his palm firmly against Quentin’s erection while the other hand unbuckles Quentin’s belt.

Quentin gasps, his eyes closing, still seeing streaks of light against his eyelids. “Uh—until—until I take it down.” Eliot chuckles as he bites lightly into Quentin’s neck, his hand slipping inside Quentin’s boxers, wrapping his fingers around Quentin’s achingly hard dick. God, he’s already leaking, and he bucks up into Eliot’s fist, pulling Eliot’s face to his for a sloppy kiss.

Eliot pulls away, starting to move his fist slowly up and down the length of Quentin’s cock. Quentin can see more people milling about, there’s a group of men standing just five feet away and Quentin knows if he were to moan, yell, they would probably hear. It’s only an invisibility ward, doesn’t do a damn thing for sound. He bites his lip as Eliot reaches below his dick, caresses his balls. “You’re so hard. So worked up,” Eliot says, right up in Quentin’s ear, so close his lips and tongue are brushing over his skin. “You wanna come so bad, don’t you? Right here, in front of everyone?”

“Yes,” Quentin breathes. “Will you—” He breaks off as Eliot looks him straight in the eye, licks his palm, and then reaches down, wraps his wet hand around Quentin’s cock.

“Will I what?” Eliot asks, sliding his free hand under Quentin’s shirt, his palm spanning Quentin’s hip. Fuck his hands are huge. “Suck your dick?”

“P-Please,” Quentin stutters, rocking his hips into Eliot’s fist.

“Say it,” Eliot says firmly into Quentin’s ear. “Tell me what you want, baby. I’ll do anything. If you ask me.”

Quentin thumps his head back against the wall; now is _not_ the time for teasing. “Will you suck my goddamn cock?” Quentin feels Eliot’s grin against his ear, and Eliot drops one more kiss on Quentin’s neck before dropping to his knees.

Quentin stares at the lights flashing, hears Lady Gaga loud in his ears as he comes down Eliot’s throat in record time, hips bucking, mouth pressed shut as he struggles to stay on his feet. It’s intense, bright, sparks bursting behind his eyelids, every nerve ending set on fire as his orgasm flows from his hips and thighs to his scalp and toes. Eliot pushes him firmly against the wall, grounds him through it, and then all but catches him when his knees threaten to buckle. His legs are still shaking minutes later as Eliot presses kisses into his face and he buckles his pants.

Quentin leans into Eliot’s neck, licks at the sweat there. He’s starting to come down, the dank smell of the club is potent in his nostrils and the voices and music are louder and more obnoxious. Quentin looks up into Eliot’s face, and smiles at the contentment shining back at him.

Quentin pulls Eliot close, wraps his arms around him. “You ready to go?” he asks in Eliot’s ear.

Eliot’s hands settle at Quentin’s lower back, and he nods before dropping a soft kiss on Quentin’s lips. Quentin pulls his phone out of his pocket to call an Uber.

They’re halfway back to the cabin, Eliot amusing himself and annoying the driver by playing _Love in this Club_ on his phone when Quentin realizes he forgot to take down the invisibility ward.

~~~

_Eliot_

Eliot pokes at the firewood with a stick, maneuvering the logs so the flame will be protected from the slight winds blowing through. Satisfied that the fire will have enough fuel to burn for a while, he sits down in the wooden chaise lounge. Quentin, grinning, walks up to the fire pit, a bag of marshmallows in one hand and a couple of long sticks in the other.

Eliot magically extended the chaise lounge so it has enough room for both of them, and Quentin plops down next to him. Eliot grabs a blanket he’d brought outside, and spreads it over their legs. His glass of Cabernet and Quentin’s whiskey are sitting on a small table next to him.

It’s about an hour until midnight on New Year’s Eve, and they’re outside, in front of the cabin. It’s just below freezing, but the fire, liquor, and Quentin are keeping Eliot plenty warm.

They’d slept in, and spent most of the day lazing around the cabin. When Eliot had suggested lighting up the fire pit, Quentin immediately agreed, wanting to do something for New Year’s Eve other than just watch it happen on TV. The sky is wide open above them with no cloud cover, and Quentin is hoping they can see some fireworks from somewhere when it hits midnight.

Eliot watches as Quentin threads three marshmallows on his stick, and leans forward to stick it over the flame. He puts it in too close to the base of the flame, and jerks the stick back as they catch fire.

“Not too low,” Eliot laughs as Quentin tries to blow on it, and Eliot tuts a little blast of air that douses the marshmallow. “You’re just gonna get charred goo.”

“Maybe I like charred goo,” Quentin says, delicately hovering his marshmallows over the flame, getting a more even burn. Eliot sips his wine as he watches Quentin slowly rotate the stick to try to get the perfect singe. After a few moments, Quentin pulls the marshmallows over to him and immediately attempts to eat them off the stick. It’s funny and stupidly sexy, watching him try to wrap his tongue around one and jerk back because yes, something that has been hovering over an open flame is going to be hot.

“Have you never toasted marshmallows before?” Eliot laughs. “Let it cool off.”

“I have,” Quentin says. “At cowboy camp.”

Eliot’s mouth drops open and his cock twitches as an image of Quentin in a cowboy hat jumps into his mind. “Cowboy camp? When was this?”

“Last year,” Quentin says, successfully pulling a marshmallow into his mouth.

“ _Really_?” Eliot says, sitting up straighter.

“No, jackass,” Quentin says, muffled, because he’s half-laughing with a full mouth. He swallows the marshmallow and says, “Like, in junior high.” He frowns as he looks at the stick, remnants of melted marshmallow sticking to it. “It tasted better in my head,” he admits, setting the stick down.

Eliot clears his throat as Quentin proceeds to lick his fingers, drawing them in his mouth and sucking off the fluff that had melted onto his skin. Eliot doesn’t even think Quentin realizes the effect he’s having as he literally wraps his lips around _every single finger_ with no mind for the innocent bystander, aka Eliot’s cock. He’s reminded that it’s been just about twenty-four hours since his last orgasm, in Quentin’s mouth in the back of a club behind an invisibility ward that Eliot is pretty sure Quentin never removed.

Quentin had surprised him. Dancing, without protest, for over an hour, then yanking Eliot behind a ward where he’d wasted no time dropping to his knees and giving Eliot the most memorable blow job of his life. He’d never forget Quentin’s hands holding him against the wall as he sucked on Eliot’s dick like his life depended on it, unsuspecting people walking just mere feet away. It had been the most intense kind of high, the euphoria from the pill he’d taken mixing with the adrenaline from having Quentin’s tongue on him, coaxing a powerful orgasm within minutes.

Eliot shifts in his seat as Quentin settles in next to him and pulls the blanket up over their laps. Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand, slots their fingers together, squeezes Eliot’s palm. They lay back against the chaise, staring up at the night sky above them.

Eliot has trouble comprehending that this is the same sky that shone down on him at Brakebills, when Quentin showed up drunk under his window. These same stars were twinkling when Margo had led him out of the library, covered in Mike’s blood. The same inky blackness swirled above him all those nights he had snuck out of the old farmhouse, as quiet as possible so his brothers and parents didn’t wake up.

Those events all feel like they happened a lifetime ago, to a different person. That person was broken, torn apart by life and circumstance. The man who lays here now might not be completely whole, but he’s getting there, patching himself together, mending his old, festering wounds. Eliot turns to Quentin, looks down at his soft brown hair falling in his gentle brown eyes, soft lashes fluttering up at the sky, full lips parted as he stares at the stars, and he thinks _I am so fucking in love with you._

It wasn’t a surprise to Eliot when he’d first thought the thought, the night before when Quentin had gazed up at him on the dance floor, colorful lights playing across his face, sweat beading on his brow. Quentin had looked up at Eliot with something akin to amazement, like he couldn’t believe he was so lucky to be right here, right now, and _I love you_ had popped into Eliot’s drug-fogged head, clear as day.

Eliot hadn’t had time to linger on the thought last night as Quentin had then undertaken his mission to suck Eliot’s brains out through his dick, but Eliot had thought about it plenty that day. When he’d woken up earlier that morning, Quentin’s arm thrown around his waist and their legs tangled together. When they’d relaxed in the hot tub, _actually_ relaxed and not just groped each other. When they’d gotten high and then taken a nap together later that afternoon. When he’d made dinner and Quentin had sworn up and down it was the best thing he’d put in his mouth since Eliot’s cock the night before.

He should have been freaking out, withdrawing, putting as much space as possible between himself and Quentin. Margo’s words echo in his mind— _Where is this going?_ Eliot knows there was only one way it was going to go, and it’s much more Shakespearean tragedy than Jane Austen romance.

But every time Quentin smiles at him and his heart skips a beat, Eliot doesn’t feel trapped, or bogged down—he feels the same way he did when he first walked across the Sea at Brakebills and saw students levitating their books and making flowers grow in the palm of their hands. Like an entirely new world is open to him, like he’s seeing in color for the first time.

It’s only been maybe three months, he shouldn’t _be here_ yet. It should take _longer_ , to be so consumed by someone. There’s still so much they don’t know about each other. Eliot considered that maybe it’s all just an intense reaction to actually getting to _really_ be with Quentin, like a boyfriend and not some… hidden thing to be ashamed of. But as Quentin tilts his head up for a kiss, Eliot knows this feeling isn’t temporary. It’s here to stay.

And even while it’s terrifying, it’s also comforting. To know that he can feel this way about someone again, that he’s not permanently broken after… what he’s been through. Even if he’s picked the most inconvenient person to love.

Eliot pulls slightly away from Quentin, wraps an arm around his shoulder. Quentin rests his head on Eliot’s shoulder, lays his hand on Eliot’s thigh under the blanket.

“What do you usually do for New Year’s Eve?” Eliot asks, dropping a kiss on Quentin’s head before turning his gaze back to the sky.

“Get drunk,” Quentin says immediately. Eliot chuckles, and he continues, “When I was a student at Brakebills, my whole group would go to whatever party was going on at the Cottage; Elli usually had something amazing planned. After graduation, I’d hang out with Julia and Kady, but it was kind of depressing watching them kiss at midnight. The last couple of years I just stayed home.”

“Not many people would find watching two girls kiss depressing,” Eliot says, lazily running his fingers and up down Quentin’s arm, smiling up at the sky. “I’ll kiss you at midnight,” he adds.

“You’d better,” Quentin says, squeezing Eliot’s thigh. He’s quiet a moment, and then says, “One year Alice and I climbed up to the roof of the Cottage. A bunch of the Illusion students had made this huge fireworks display, like the biggest I’ve ever seen. It was so cool, it went on for almost an hour.” Eliot smiles; he and Margo usually go out on NYE, and he thinks maybe next year they should ring it in on campus instead. Then Quentin says, so quietly he almost misses it, “That was the first time I told her I loved her.”

Eliot’s fingers spasm against Quentin’s shoulders, and while he wasn’t seriously considering telling Quentin how he felt (Eliot is 98.2% certain it would send Quentin running back to Brakebills in record time), that cements it. No declarations of love on New Year’s Eve, got it. Should probably stay away from all major holidays. And the entire month of October.

But this is one of those rare occasions where Quentin is volunteering information about the ever illusive Alice, and this time, Eliot isn’t going to push it away. “How long were you guys together?” he asks quietly.

“Two years,” Quentin says, sighing as he stares up at the stars. “We were friends for a while before. She died not long after our second anniversary.”

Eliot’s gut twists at the tone in Quentin’s voice, the desolate acceptance that echos out into the night. He and Mike had only been together a few months and it felt like he himself had died; he can’t imagine the pain if they had been together for years.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, knowing there are no words he can say to make it better. He can only be here, and listen. He tightens his arm around Quentin, reaches over with his other hand to hold the hand Quentin has resting on Eliot’s thigh. “I can’t imagine going through that.”

Quentin hums, squeezes Eliot’s hand. “Can’t you? I know you know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Eliot’s throat, and he looks off to the side, into the darkness of the woods. “Yeah, I, uh… Mike and I, I don’t know if we were in love, I mean, at the time I thought I was... anyway, losing him was really hard. Especially since I was the one that killed him.”

_Wow_ , okay, he did not mean to say that. And he’s hardly drunk and he last smoked like, over an hour ago so he can’t blame that either. Quentin stills in his arms, and then sinks back into Eliot’s body, squeezes his hand. Eliot looks up at the sky and tries to swallow the burning sensation in his throat.

“Can I ask what happened?” Quentin asks softly.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, clearing his throat. He focuses on the sound of the nearby creek, the gurgling water moving over the rocks, and the snap of the crackling fire in front of him. “It’s—it’s not a secret. I guess I figured all the staff knew.”

“No,” Quentin says softly. “I think the only policy at Brakebills that they actually enforce is the one to not talk about any traumatic events that happen on campus.”

Eliot chuckles humorlessly, shivering slightly even though he’s far from cold. “Yeah,” he says, looking into the forest, the tall, bare pines stretching ominously up to the sky. “Um,” he starts, “I met Mike my second year, uh, off-campus.” Quentin probably doesn’t need to know that they were both naked on a beach at the time.

He lets go of Quentin’s hand, picking up his wine glass and taking a generous gulp. He searches out Quentin’s hand again, sinking into the safety he feels when Quentin threads their fingers together.

“He had graduated a couple of years ahead of me, so he had an alumni key and would come visit at the Cottage. His discipline was Illusions, focusing on sensory manipulation, and he used the library a lot for research.” Eliot pauses, his throat tightening up, his heart thudding in his chest.

“One night, I didn’t know he was on campus, but he texted me, asking me to meet him in the library basement. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days, but that wasn’t really weird, because he was busy with work, some big project. It was late, almost midnight. I got there, and the room was a wreck. Mike looked like he hadn’t slept in days. And when I got close enough, he…” Eliot falters, thinking back to that night.

_“Mike,” Eliot said, closing the door behind him. He stopped short as he looked around the room—it looked like a full-out brawl had taken place. The large table was on it’s side, pushed against one side of the room. There were papers, books strewn everywhere. Burnt candles were scattered everywhere, and several still-lit ones dotted the perimeter of the room, giving it an eerie glow. A few chairs were overturned, and he could smell something acrid, like burning herbs. “Mike?” he called out again, cautiously stepping further inside._

_“Eliot,” he heard, and he turned to his left. Mike was leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to his forehead._

_“Hey,” he said, rushing over to his side. “Sit down.” He picked up a chair, setting it upright and guiding Mike to sit down. “What happened? Are you okay?” he asked, cupping Mike’s cheek, peering at his face in the dim light._

_“Oh,” Mike said, picking his head up and gazing down at Eliot. “I’m just fine. So happy you could be here.”_

_His blue eyes were shining down at Eliot, so familiar, but… off somehow. Lacking their usual warmth, they glowed in an almost unnatural way. Eliot pulled his hand back, something cold striking through his heart. Something wasn’t right._

_“Okay,” Eliot said. “What are you doing down here? I thought you were working.” He looks around the room… a circle of stones is set in the middle of the room, and the burning smell was definitely coming from the smoking pile in the center of it._ This is not good _, Eliot thought._

_“I am working,” he said pleasantly. He gripped Eliot’s wrist in his hand, held it against his chest. “You have no idea how long I’ve been working for this.” His eyes flashed again, brightened and faded._

_“Okay,” Eliot said, gently pulling his hand away. “Is Elaine here?” Eliot stood up, searching the room for Mike’s partner that he’d been working with for the past several weeks. Eliot stepped further into the room, and his blood ran cold as he saw a pair of feet sticking out from behind the overturned table. He could also see that what he thought were shadows on the floor were actually blood stains._

_He turned to Mike, finding him now standing up, a few feet behind Eliot, now between Eliot and the door. The hair on Eliot’s arms stood up, every instinct telling him to run run_ fucking run _. “She wasn’t enough,” Mike said. “I need another.”_

Shit shit shit _. He had no idea what Mike had been working on, but it was apparently it had gone south, in the worst way. Eliot slowly backed away from the man he’d spent most of his nights with the past few months, the man he thought he was falling in love with. He tried not to step into the circle of whatever or the blood stains as his mind whirled. Mike’s eyes continued to flash, and Eliot had no fucking idea who was in control right now, but it definitely wasn’t Mike. “Mike,” he said, pleading, desperately. “It’s me. Eliot.”_

_“I know,” Mike said, stepping closer. Eliot could see he held a knife in his hand, red with blood. “You’re important. Yours will do.” Eliot’s back hit the wall; there was nowhere else to go._

_“Mike,” Eliot said, raising his hands, tears forming in his eyes. “Please stop._ Stop _, you_ know _me, I’m_ Eliot _, don’t do this._ Please _.”_

_Mike stepped forward, the knife raised, poised to plunge directly into Eliot’s heart. “I have to do this.” He took another step forward, his arm starting to move when Eliot moved his hands, sucked in his breath. A red line sliced across Mike’s neck, and he dropped the knife and clutched his throat, falling forward._

_Eliot caught him, Mike’s blood spurting all over his clothes. He slowly lowered Mike to the ground, his entire body shaking. “Mike,” Eliot gasped out. Mike’s eyes brightened again, and then faded back to their normal color. Mike stared up at Eliot, and Eliot knew he was back. His Mike. Just in time to bleed out in Eliot’s arms._

“I’m not sure how long I was down there, trying to stop the bleeding when Margo came in. I’d told her where I was going and she got worried…” Eliot breathes in a shaky breath, and tastes tears on his lips. He feels like he just jumped off a cliff and is free-falling through the air, with no idea how long the drop is, or what awaits him below.

He lets go of Quentin’s hand and reaches up to wipe off his wet cheeks. Quentin leans into him, wraps his hand around the side of Eliot’s neck, reaches up to gently press a kiss to his collarbone. It’s so tender and light, the direct opposite of the storm raging inside Eliot’s heart right now. A choked sob passes Eliot’s lips, and he quickly clears his throat, tries to swallow it down.

“Sorry,” he says brokenly. “Uh, I don’t know if they ever figured out what Mike and Elaine were trying to do, but they summoned something… not good.” Eliot sniffles, takes another sip of his wine. It’s tasteless on his tongue, but he swallows it down, clutching the glass in his fingers. “I kind of checked out for a while after that. You said you wouldn’t be here without Julia; Margo is the same for me. She dragged me back to life. Literally, some nights. And even still, I wasn’t really…” _Myself_. “Not until…” _Until I met you_ , he thinks.

“Shhh,” Quentin says, pushing up, nearly climbing in Eliot’s lap in an effort to get closer to him. Eliot sets the wine glass back down as Quentin threads a hand through Eliot’s hair, drops a soft kiss on his lips, presses their foreheads together. “Eliot, he was going to kill you. You know that. You didn’t have a choice.”

Eliot nods, fighting back more tears, just fucking _stop crying_. “Yeah, I… I know. But I could have broken his legs or—or anything other than—”

“No,” Quentin says firmly. “If he was possessed by a demon or a god, then only killing the vessel would have done it. You did the only thing you could do.”

Eliot lets his head fall back against the chair, exhales hard. He hadn’t known how much he wanted to tell Quentin about it until it was out of his mouth, until the weight had lifted off his shoulders. But he’s not done, he realizes. He wants Quentin to know every part of him, even the dirty underbelly he keeps hidden from sight. Every part of his past that led to him to where he is today. And, he knows, he would live every horrible moment of his life over again, if it means he winds up under a luminous sky on a winter’s night, kept warm and upright by Quentin’s strong arms wrapped around him.

“Everyone told me how it wasn’t my fault,” Eliot says, “and objectively, I—I get that. But no one knows…” he trails off, the lump reforming in his throat. It’s hard to make the words come, but Quentin’s fingers softly comb through Eliot’s hair and he presses his face into Eliot’s neck, and Eliot forces them out. “He wasn’t the first person that I killed.”

Quentin picks his head up and meets Eliot’s eyes. Eliot can see the concern and worry creasing his face, and Eliot rushes to explain, lest Quentin think Eliot is some crazy serial killer that lured him out to a cabin in the woods to wear his face as a hat or something. “I was fourteen. I already told you I didn’t have a very happy childhood, and while most of that is because of my dad, another part of it, a _big_ part, was because of Logan Kinnear.” Eliot exhales, catches his breath. “He was a bully, picked on me, beat me up. I can’t tell you how many times he made me think about killing myself.”

Quentin inhales sharply, looks away, at the fire. Eliot continues on, “I was walking across the street, and I saw him crossing over, and there was this bus coming… and I thought, _I wish that bus would swerve just a little_ , and _it did_. Slammed right into Logan, killed him.” Eliot exhales shakily as Quentin’s fingers rest on the back of his neck. Eliot glances at Quentin, and then joins him in staring at the fire. It’s hypnotic, how the flames dance across the wood. “I knew immediately what I did. My nose literally started bleeding. That was the first time I ever did magic.” Eliot laughs sharply, without humor. “Even before I met you, I was fortune’s fool.”

Quentin’s fingers tighten around Eliot’s. “Eliot,” he says, tentatively. Eliot doesn’t look at him, doesn’t want to see the pity that he knows will be shining in those brown eyes.

“So that’s it,” he says. “All my baggage. Sorry to just dump it all out on you and ruin our evening.” He tries to sit up, but Quentin tightens his hold on him, reaches up and turns Eliot’s face to meet his own.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says softly. Eliot does see pity in Quentin’s eyes, but also tenderness and a soft understanding. “That’s so much shit for you to have to wade through. And Eliot, I know—um, I—” Quentin cuts himself off, sighs, looks away, frustrated with something. He doesn’t meet Eliot’s eyes when he continues, “None of it is your fault. I—I understand. More than you know.” Quentin swallows hard, looking up at him again, reaching up to push the errant curl off Eliot’s forehead. It falls right back into place, and Quentin smiles sadly. “Magic causes so many more problems than it solves.”

Eliot blinks slowly, relief flowing through him. Warmth swells up within him, and he recognizes it now— _love_. God, it’s already almost oppressive, the urge to just continue vomiting his feelings all over Quentin. _Slow down. Too much, too fast_.

He focuses back on Quentin, their faces inches from each other, curled together on the chaise. “Magic saved me,” Eliot says. “In so many ways. I never really felt like I belonged anywhere until I walked through the door to Brakebills and sat down at the exam. And it’s fucked me over so many times.” He looks back at the fire and smiles ruefully. “But I can’t imagine my life without it.” _Without you._ “I don't know what that says about me, that I could never give up this thing that has hurt me so much.”

Quentin cups Eliot’s cheek, pulling him back to Quentin, drawing him into a soft kiss. “I know exactly what you mean.” He stares into Eliot’s face for a moment, searching, and Eliot flashes back to that first night in Quentin’s office, when Quentin hovered over him with that same look in his eyes. Like he’s questioning reality, trying to decide if what’s in front of him is real or not. Eliot pushes forward, kisses Quentin again, leans his entire body into it, wrapping his fingers around Quentin’s wrist, his other arm around Quentin’s waist, pulling him close.

As he deepens the kiss, Eliot feels like he’s one of those stars up in the sky. He was shrouded in darkness, but now he’s bright and shiny, sparkling, radiating heat and love. He’s burning up beyond his control, and it’s the most delicious kind of chaos, consuming him from within. He still doesn’t know what the fuck is going to happen when they’re back at Brakebills, but he _knows_ , is so completely certain that _this_ is where he belongs, this is where magic always meant to bring him—to Quentin.

Eliot’s hands are traveling down Quentin’s waist when Quentin pulls away, his breath coming faster. “Eliot, I—”

“Q,” Eliot interrupts, not wanting to waste more time with Quentin comforting him, trying to make him forget his past. He just wants to be here, as close to Quentin as he can get. “Can we go inside?”

Quentin looks startled, and his eyes dart away and then back to Eliot. “Yeah, sure. You don’t want to stay out here for midnight?”

Eliot draws Quentin into another kiss, deep and slow, stroking his tongue against Quentin’s. When he pulls away, Quentin is nearly panting into his mouth. He looks meaningfully into Quentin’s eyes. “I want to be inside with you for midnight.”

Quentin nods, and on shaky legs they get up. Eliot douses the fire while Quentin grabs their glasses and trash, and then they head inside.

They leave the liquor and glasses on the kitchen counter, and Quentin turns off the downstairs lights as they head to the bedroom. Eliot strips off his sweater and cardigan as they walk up the stairs, and sits on the bed to take off his shoes once they get in the bedroom. Quentin toes his shoes off, and takes off his socks as he hops over to the bathroom.

Eliot hears the shower turn on, and he watches Quentin strip off his layers, revealing his strong torso, a light layering of chest hair. Eliot wondered how Quentin kept his stomach so flat with how much he drinks, until he realized how often Quentin just forgot to eat. At least he knows Quentin’s gotten at least two meals a day the past few days.

“Come on,” Quentin says, tugging Eliot up. “We could use a shower.” Eliot lets Quentin unbutton his shirt and tug it off his arms, and then he watches, half-smiling as Quentin starts in on his belt. “You gonna help me at all?” Quentin asks, unzipping Eliot’s pants.

“You’re so focused, I hate to interrupt,” Eliot says, smirking. Quentin shakes his head and leaves Eliot to step out of his pants as he strips off the rest of his own clothing.

The water is hot when Eliot steps under it, and he closes his eyes, savoring the warmth that chases away the last of the cold night. Droplets slide through his hair, down his chest and back. Quentin steps in behind him and closes the glass door. Eliot is about to turn to him when Quentin wraps his arms around Eliot from behind and presses his face into Eliot’s back, pulling him tight against his chest.

A rush of affection swells up in Eliot’s chest, and he covers Quentin’s hands with his own. Quentin turns his face into Eliot’s skin, presses a soft kiss on his upper back, where Eliot knows his tattoo is. The magic in it surges at Quentin’s touch, and a soft shiver runs down Eliot’s spine. He doesn’t really like his tattoo; it’s just another permanent reminder of how fucked up Brakebills is. He’s thought about releasing the demon inside; he doubts he’ll ever have a need for it. But it remains trapped beneath his skin, another wound inflicted upon him by magic. He puts so much effort into how he looks, perfect clothing, flawless hair, but there isn’t enough product in the world to hide all the scar tissue within. He wonders how anyone could ever love someone as damaged as he is.

As if he’s reading Eliot’s mind, Quentin says softly, “Eliot. You have to know there’s nothing you could tell me about your past that would change how I feel about you.”

_How do you feel about me?_ Eliot wonders as his heartbeat picks up. His mouth won’t form the words though, and he can only hold onto Quentin tight as the water pours over his face.

Eliot knows that he’s important to Quentin. He wouldn’t be here, in this cabin, if he wasn’t. But he has no idea if Quentin thinks of a future with him, something beyond Brakebills. If Quentin thinks of a future at all.

“Come on,” Quentin says, pulling Eliot out of his thoughts. “Let me get under the water and then you can show me which one of these bottles has whatever magic potion makes your hair look so amazing all the time.”

Eliot chuckles and moves so Quentin can step under the spray. Eliot’s eyes land on Quentin’s tattoo, just as black as Eliot’s, but devoid of magic. Eliot wonders when he used it, if he couldn’t stand the demon that lived within, or he released it in a moment of true need.

Shaking those thoughts away, his eyes move down to Quentin’s pert little ass, his strong thighs, leading down to muscular calves. Quentin tilts his face up, running his hands through his hair as the water cascades down his face, and Eliot can’t resist stepping up behind him, settling his palm on Quentin’s hip.

“We waited way too long to get into this shower together,” he rumbles, squeezing Quentin’s wet skin. Quentin turns to him, wiping the water out of his eyes.

“The shower in my room at Brakebills isn’t tall enough for you,” Quentin says, stepping closer, his hands settling on Eliot’s ribs. His belly brushes Eliot’s cock, and Eliot’s eyes flutter shut as a swath of heat shoots through his groin. “Can I wash your hair?”

Eliot’s dick instantly responds, thickening as his eyes fly open. Quentin’s hair is slicked back, drops of water slipping down his chest as he looks up at Eliot, smirking slightly, like he knows Eliot’s cock is stiffening up just from looking at him. Eliot cradles Quentin’s face in his hands, leans down, brushes his lips against Quentin’s. “You wanna wash my hair?”

“I wanna take care of you,” Quentin says. “If you’ll let me.” Eliot smiles softly, kissing Quentin again as he nods.

He grabs his bottle of conditioner (no shampoo for these curls, at least not today) and hands it to Quentin. Quentin squeezes some into his palm, sniffing it before he sets it back on the shelf built into the shower wall.

“Smells like you,” he says as he reaches up, Eliot ducking his head down to give Quentin easier access.

Quentin’s fingers comb through Eliot’s hair, tentatively at first, then firmer, the pads of his fingers massaging into Eliot’s scalp. A small noise escapes Eliot’s lips as Quentin’s touch radiates through his body, a comforting wash of tenderness and intimacy that trickles from his head, through his torso, all the way down to his toes. Eliot closes his eyes and turns himself over to it, imagining Quentin’s fingers washing away all the pain that’s colored his mind for the past several years.

It’s a gentle kind of heat that builds between them, as Quentin washes the product from his hair. Eliot usually has an entire routine for his hair, but he skimps on it tonight, eager to return the favor. He lathers up Quentin’s long hair, taking his time, enjoying the sounds that fall from Quentin’s mouth as he digs his fingers in.

By the time they step out of the shower and into the steam-filled bathroom, they’re both fully hard, Quentin’s cock rubbing against Eliot’s thighs as he pushes up for a kiss. Eliot stops Quentin from tutting them dry, insisting on using a towel to soak up the water streaming down Quentin’s body. Eliot kisses his way down Quentin’s chest, dragging the soft material down his torso. Eliot kneels down, dropping a soft kiss on Quentin’s dick as he squeezes Quentin’s calves through the towel. One of Quentin’s hands thread through Eliot’s wet hair, and he tugs upward. Eliot smiles, nosing at Quentin’s cock as he moves his mouth to Quentin’s balls, licking at them.

He’s interrupted by a towel falling over his head, and he laughs as Quentin haphazardly attempts to dry his hair. “As long as you’re down there,” Quentin says, and Eliot can feel the smile in his voice, “Let’s dry you off before we end up fucking on the bathroom floor.”

“I’m okay with that,” Eliot says, but he allows Quentin to squeeze the water out of his hair, wipe off the water dripping off his body. They wind up using the drying spell anyway, so distracted they are by each other to really do a decent job getting dry.

Quentin pulls Eliot into the bedroom, where they fall onto the bed, a tangle of lips and limbs. Eliot turns onto his back, pulling Quentin on top of him, kissing him hungrily. He wants Quentin on top of him, all over him, inside him. This craving will never go away, he thinks, the endless need to touch Quentin, taste him, be wrapped up in him.

“Will you—” he asks, wrapping his legs around Quentin, tilting his hips up so Quentin’s cock drags along the cleft of his ass.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, understanding immediately, one hand reaching back to grip the back of Eliot’s thigh, the other settled on Eliot’s neck. “Yeah, baby, I want you. I always want you. Make you feel good.” He lets go of Eliot and slides down his body, tutting a protection and cleaning spell on his way.

The first touch of Quentin’s mouth on his cock is electric, wet shockwaves flowing throughout his body as Quentin laves at the head of his dick, as his fingers drift lower to circle Eliot’s entrance. Eliot’s eyes are closed, head pressing into the pillow as Quentin licks and sucks at his cock, his small moans and Eliot’s soft gasps filling the air. Quentin pushes open Eliot’s thighs, settling down between them. There’s no urgency tonight, no race to the finish—Quentin is taking his time, sliding one finger inside Eliot, stroking lazily before he adds another.

Quentin slowly stokes the fire burning inside Eliot, with his hands and tongue, working Eliot open so slowly they’re in a new year by the time he slides up Eliot’s body, threads the fingers of one hand together. “You ready?” Quentin gasps, and Eliot can feel his cock hard against Eliot’s thigh.

“Yes,” Eliot gasps, his legs shaking. He’d been ready nearly as soon as Quentin had dragged the flat of his tongue over his hole, had to work to keep from coming all over his stomach when he’d licked inside him.

He lets go of Quentin’s hand so he can grip Quentin’s face, thrusts his tongue into his mouth as they rut against each other. Quentin shifts lower, and Eliot cants his hips up, reaches down to stroke Quentin’s cock. Quentin presses his face into Eliot’s shoulder, bites on the skin there as Eliot presses the head of Quentin’s cock against his tight opening.

Quentin presses forward and Eliot lets his hand fall away, Quentin sliding in easily. It’s so fucking good, feeling this full, this overcome by another person, by Quentin.

He starts to move, slow arching strokes, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, his stomach dragging over Eliot’s cock with an almost agonizing precision. He grabs Eliot’s hand again, slots their fingers together and presses it into the mattress as he slowly fucks Eliot, fuels the pressure building inside.

There is no talking tonight, no desperate words about how hard they want to fuck, how much they want to come. There are only soft gasps and hushed whispers, Eliot staring into Quentin’s wide, blown out eyes as they move together, still speeding down that same dark path they always have been. Now, though, Eliot thinks he can see a tiny pinprick of light at the end.

Something is shifting, has changed, and as Quentin grabs Eliot’s other hand so they’re joined at every possible link, Eliot thinks there’s no going back. They may return to Brakebills, resume their roles as teacher and student, but the sky above will never look the same to Eliot. Quentin’s turning him around, inside out, forcing him to look at the possibility of the future instead of the despair of the past.

Even if all that’s at the end of this road is a brick wall, Eliot will be forever grateful for this time with Quentin, for showing Eliot how to live again.

As Quentin’s movements grow more urgent, his breath more ragged, as he strokes faster into Eliot’s body, Eliot hopes he can do the same for Quentin.

That Quentin will let him.

~~~

_Quentin_

Quentin sets the box of broken vases and dishes back in the cabinet in his classroom, humming to himself. The first day of classes is tomorrow, and for the first time, he’s completely ready.

All of his materials are prepped. Papers photo copied. Classroom clean. He doesn’t think he’s ever been _this_ prepared for a semester to start. He only has one class this semester, just seven students, so not exactly a lot to prepare, but he did it. Where’s his gold fucking star?

He leans back against his desk, hands in his pockets, and as he looks over his classroom, he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He feels _good_.

It’s been two weeks since he and Eliot came back from North Carolina. They’d spent their last day laying around the cabin, getting high and watching _Roman Holiday_ (Eliot’s choice) and _Dumb and Dumber_ (Quentin’s choice, because Eliot had never seen it, something he didn’t seem too upset about even after the movie was over).

Those four days were among the happiest of Quentin’s life. It had been hard, packing up to come back to Brakebills, knowing what they were leaving behind.

_Eliot sat down on the bed, next to Quentin’s half-packed suitcase. They needed to return the rental car in an hour before hitting the portal that would take them back to the city._

_“Quentin,” Eliot said, turning his pocket watch over in his hands, “what happens when we get back to Brakebills?”_

_Quentin had stilled, slowly dropping the jeans he was folding in his suitcase. He resisted the urge to deflect, make a joke, because he knew what Eliot meant. He had been wondering about it himself._

_He shoved his suitcase over and sat next to Eliot. “I dunno,” he admitted. “I had a really good time here. With you,” he added, looking at his hands twisting together in his lap._

_Eliot reached over and took his hand, squeezed his palm. “I did too. A_ really _good time,” he said. “And not just because of all the sex. Or the hot tub.” He grins at Quentin, but Quentin can see the sadness in his eyes, the naked honesty. Quentin squeezes his palm as he feels that same unhappiness heavy in his heart. “I’m not ready to go back.”_

_“Yeah,” Quentin said softly. “Me neither.” He cleared his throat, smiled at Eliot. “The campus should still be empty for a week or so. We can still see each other every day, if we want,” he said. “After that, we just… take it day by day again.”_

_Eliot nodded, looking down at their joined hands. He glanced back at Quentin, and the serious look on his face made Quentin’s stomach flip. Eliot’s eyes were tight, and he opened his mouth to say something. But then he quickly closed it, looked away again, and when he turned back to Quentin, the serious expression was gone, replaced by a smile. “I can do that,” he said. He leaned over, kissed Quentin softly. “Thank you for inviting me.” Then he frowned. “Although I am sad we never got to fuck in front of the fire.”_

They’d picked up right where they left off when they came back, soaking up as much of each other as they could before everyone returned from break. Quentin spent most nights at the Cottage, sleeping in Eliot’s bed and even eating in their kitchen one night when it was only the two of them there. Eliot had talked him into going out to lunch with him and Margo, arguing that if anyone saw them, they could easily explain him having lunch with _two_ former students instead of just one. Quentin begged to differ, but eventually he’d caved and they’d gone to some Irish pub in the city. He still didn’t think Margo liked him much, but after spending an hour discussing the unnecessary additions to the Hobbit movies ( _Evangeline Lilly is never_ unnecessary _, Quentin)_ and the French chick she'd hooked up with over New Years ( _her name is Madi and she said my cooch tasted better than finely aged white wine, which I choose to take as a compliment_ ) he thought she’d warmed up to him some.

He won’t get to see Eliot as often, with classes starting and Eliot heading into thesis preparation. But instead of focusing on the nights he’d be spending alone, he forced his brain to think of when they would be together, and how they could make the most of their time.

Plus, there’s always phone sex.

He still gets high daily, but he’s drinking less since they got back. Damn Eliot, he was right, and Quentin is starting to actually develop a taste for certain liquors instead of pouring whatever was nearby down his throat.

He still dreams, Alice visiting his subconscious frequently, but the dreams are no longer as vivid, devastating, real. They linger in Quentin’s mind for a few moments after he wakes, but nearly disappear by the time he gets out of bed.

All in all, the past two weeks have been better than Quentin ever imagined.

He’s gathering his things, about to head to his office to grab his phone, when the door to his classroom swings open. Penny and Henry walk in, and the looks on their faces stops Quentin in his tracks. Henry always looks constipated, but right now he looks almost… sad. Penny’s expression is full of worry, his eyes tight, looking at him in a way Quentin’s never seen before.

“H-Hi,” Quentin says, looking between them. “Is everything okay?”

_Shit_ , he thinks suddenly. _They know_. He and Eliot have gotten _way_ too comfortable. Sloppy. Fuck, what was he thinking? Going to a fucking romantic getaway, eating dinner in the _Cottage_ , thinking no one would find out? This is _it_. He’s getting fired, he’s fucking _done_.

“Quentin,” Henry says. “We need to talk.”

_Oh god._

“Q,” Penny says, Quentin startling at the nickname. Penny never calls him that. “It’s your mom.”

~~~

tbc in Chapter 10: Section 5.9 - Bullet 6 - Feelings of Worthlessness or Excessive or Inappropriate guilt;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory song for this chapter:  
> [Sexually, mentally  
>  Physically, and emotionally  
>  I'll be like your medicine  
>  You'll take every dose of me  
>  It's going down on aisle three  
>  I'll bag you  
>  Like some groceries](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB5e0zHRzHc)


	10. Section 5.9 - Bullet 6 - Feelings of Worthlessness or Excessive or Inappropriate guilt;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parental death tag is heavily in effect for this chapter. End notes for more spoilers. Please take care of yourself as needed.
> 
> I’m taking Christmas week off from posting, so the next chapter will be posted on December 29.

_Quentin_

“How’s your mom, Danny?” Quentin tosses the tequila down his throat, and motions for another.

Danny arches an eyebrow as he pours another one, exhaling a breath as Quentin drinks it quickly. He nudges a glass of water in Quentin’s direction. Quentin frowns at it, and taps his empty shot glass. Danny sighs and pours another.

“She’s fine,” Danny says, sounding tired even though it’s hardly 7PM, as Quentin drinks it. “Probably watching reality TV with Dad.” He nudges the glass of water towards Quentin, who picks it up with a sigh and sips it. Then he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. He gives Danny a meaningful look.

Danny’s lips form a thin line, and he looks around the mostly-empty bar, like a drowning man looking for a life jacket. He’s the only bartender on duty, and Quentin is the only person drinking the night before Brakebills classes start up for a new term. He turns back to Quentin and, a hesitant look on his face, asks, “How is your mom, Quentin?”

“She died this morning, thanks for asking,” Quentin says, taking another drag, a grim satisfaction swelling up inside as he watches Danny’s face fall. “Now can you please stop shoving water in my face and keep pouring shots, like you’re fucking paid for?” Quentin flicks the ash on the bartop, ignoring the ashtray inches away.

Danny’s face goes on a complicated journey, navigating between irritation, sympathy, and pity before he picks up the bottle of tequila and sets it on the bar in front of Quentin, next to his empty shot glass. “Quentin,” he says. “That’s really shitty. I’m so sorry. ” Then he sets both hands on the edge of the bar, and fixes Quentin with a steely stare. Quentin feels another stab of guilt in his chest, and _Jesus_ , how is there even room for more, there’s gotta be like, a guilt quota he’s met twenty times over. He looks down at the bar, at the dirty ash he just dropped on its shiny surface.

“But you ever talk to me like that again, and you’re banned from the fucking bar,” Danny says firmly. Then he walks away, pulling out his phone as he leaves Quentin alone with his thoughts.

“Sorry,” Quentin calls out weakly. “Fuck,” he whispers, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. He quickly wipes away the ash he dropped onto the floor. Then he grabs the bottle and pours himself another shot, spilling only a little on the bar. He downs it quickly, before he has a chance to think about it.

His mom is dead. _Dead_.

A car accident. Someone ran a red light, and she’s gone. Just like that.

But that’s how it is, right? Just like that. Someone runs a red light. They miss a stop sign. You forget to take a pill. You cast a spell. You think a thought. And your life is forever changed.

He hadn’t talked to her since that last phone call right after Christmas. He hadn’t seen her for… fuck, seven years now?

His parents had split when he was twelve, his mom immediately moving to the city with Molly. There had never been a custody battle, or even a discussion, really—it was understood he’d be living with his Dad in their house in Jersey. Which was fine with him. He loved both his parents, but his dad… his dad got him. In a way his mom never would. A way she never tried to.

His mom tried to enroll him in Little League and soccer, which went about as well as you’d expect for a clumsy, shy kid that brought a book to every practice. His dad took him to the library twice a week and helped him pick through the newest YA and fantasy paperbacks that had come in. His mom yelled at him when he accidentally knocked over a lamp, shattering it all over the ground. His dad made sure Quentin was okay and helped him clean it up. His mom fussed at him for being lazy and said he needed to smile more and speak up in class. His dad took Quentin to therapy and made sure he took his meds.

He’d died during Quentin’s second year. Cancer. It was the worst day of his life, the day of his dad’s funeral. Until the next worst day of his life came along. And the next.

The last time he’d seen his mom had been after the funeral, packing up his dad’s things. She’d come in, wondering why the funeral had been so empty. “He was normal. I divorced him, he was so normal, so where are his goddamn friends?” Quentin had shrugged, and as she’d left him to pack up his dad’s study, she’d tossed back over her shoulder, “Don’t break anything.”

Why had she wanted to see him for Christmas? Had she known someone was gonna t-bone her two miles from her own house? She’d invited him over before, randomly, and he always found some reason to not go. The main one being he didn’t fucking want to.

He’d never felt guilty for it, not when he thought of how miserable he was with her and how much better he felt with his dad. Plus, after Alice, he thought he couldn’t possibly have room for any more guilt. His coffers were full, overflowing, and simply could not sustain even one more drop.

He’d been wrong. As soon as Penny had said, “It’s your mom,” the pain that ripped through him was just as intense as the day he’d let loose the demon in his back. His stomach had dropped to the floor, and he was no longer in his classroom. He was with his dad at the oncology center while a doctor changed his life with every word that came out of his mouth; he was next to that fountain, whispering _Quentin says go free;_ he was in an abandoned lot sobbing with Julia while he stared at a the remains of a small wooden box on the ground.

After he pulled himself back to the present, as Fogg explained that Molly had called the front office when she couldn’t reach him on his cell, as Quentin rolled the words _My mom is dead_ over and over in his head, the first person that popped into his head was Eliot. Eliot, his cheeks wet and eyes glassy as he stares up at a dark, starry sky above him. Not Julia. Eliot.

He’d already been on Quentin’s mind when Penny and Henry had walked in. Quentin was so certain they’d been caught, he was about to be fired, that it took a few minutes for the reality to hit him.

He still has a job. He doesn’t have a mom or a dad, but he has a job.

Once it sunk in, just a millimeter, once he _realized_ , his want for Eliot nearly crushed him. The desire to be back at the cabin, where their only worry was what movie to put on or what to do for dinner, overwhelmed him so suddenly he stumbled backwards against his desk.

But he couldn’t have that. Couldn’t even ask for it. Because he wasn’t supposed to have Eliot. In any way. He’d stood frozen in his classroom, staring blankly ahead while Henry asked if he could call anyone, when Penny said he was calling Julia. That sprung Quentin into action, telling Penny no, he wanted to tell Julia himself. Penny had frowned, but had nodded, and they had left, Penny glancing at Quentin as he walked out the classroom. Quentin had left his class and come straight to the city.

He hasn’t called Julia. He hasn’t called anyone. He should. Right? He should’ve done that. Eliot first. They have plans tonight, to meet in the observatory. He’ll text him. He can come here. Or Quentin can meet him somewhere. Wherever, he just _needs_ to see Eliot. His head is starting to swim, his throat burning as he reaches in his pocket for his phone… and only finds a little plastic baggie with a few blue pills in it. He stares at it in confusion, and fuck, how can he have already forgotten what he did a half hour ago but still remembers all the horrible shit in his life?

He’d made a pit stop on his way to the bar, to his dealer he hadn’t seen in… two years? He’d dropped him once Josh had enrolled at Brakebills, since he was closer and had better quality, usually. But Quentin was already through the portal when he realized he needed something harder than pot or liquor to get him through the rest of the night. And while Finn had been surprised to see Quentin at his door, he was more than happy to take his money.

“I was just thinking of you the other day.” Finn hadn’t changed a bit; his hair was still way too tall with a ridiculous amount of product, he still wore ugly ass Hawaiian shirts, and he just had so many _teeth_. “Got in something new that’s just your speed. And you look like you need it,” he’d added, eyeing Quentin from head to toe in a way that made Quentin pull his jacket tighter around him.

“This’ll get you high as a kite. Higher, really,” Finn had said, handing the baggie to Quentin. “Best shit I’ve had in awhile, has a few psychogenic enchantments on it. Will pull you right into your happy place.” He’d smirked at Quentin. “Best not to take it alone. People have a hard time letting go of the fantasy.”

Quentin had nodded, handing over payment and beelining out the door before Finn had even finished his sentence. He could use a happy place right now. Just for a few hours.

Alice… his mom will still be dead whenever he comes out of it. But that’s a tomorrow problem.

The baggie still clutched in his fist, Quentin reaches in his other pocket, inside his jacket… no phone. And then he remembers why Molly couldn’t get a hold of him—he’d left his phone charging in his office while he worked in his classroom. Where it still was; he’d been in such a fog when he left his class, it was a miracle he even had his wallet.

“Shit.” _Fuck_.

_Don’t worry, Quentin. You did your mom a favor by not seeing her before she died. She has no idea what a pathetic fuck up you’ve become._

“No,” Quentin says, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. Alice isn’t here. Her blue eyes aren’t staring at him joyfully, as she practically bounces on her feet at his misery. She’s dead. _She’s not in your head. She’s nowhere_.

His chest is getting tight again, his breath coming faster.

_Keep telling yourself that, Q._

Quentin opens up the baggie, drops the three little pills into his hand. He stares at them for a moment, and then pops them in his mouth. He chases them down with a swig of tequila straight from the bottle.

Just the act of swallowing, feeling the burn of the alcohol and the movement of the pills down his throat is enough to subdue the hurricane building inside. For now. It’s still there, swirling in the warm waters of depression and anxiety, winds slowly gaining speed and strength. It’ll overtake him eventually, but right now it’s stalled out.

He can’t help but think it might stop entirely if Eliot was here.

~~~

“Quentin. _Quentin_. Wake the fuck up.”

Quentin jumps in his seat, jerking his head up, to the side. “Jules,” he says as he focuses on the brown eyes bearing down on him, recognizing the long hair cascading around her face. “Hey! I’m so glad you’re here.” She’s not quite clear, blurry around the edges. Everything is, he realizes as he looks around. He flails out, grabs her hand, squeezes.

“Fucking finally,” another voice mutters, and Quentin turns to see an equally blurry Penny standing next to her.

“Penny!” Quentin says, grinning. He feels so _good_ , warm and fuzzy and just so freakin’ fantastic. “Is Eliot coming?”

He can see Julia’s head tilt, and she turns to look at Penny, who shrugs.

“He’s so high he probably doesn’t even know his own name,” she sighs. She turns, putting her back to Quentin. “What did he take?”

Quentin leans back in the booth, looks up at the light fixture directly above him. It has a halo around it, fluffy and soft. He reaches up, tries to touch it. His hands just passes right through it, which is so fucking funny. He laughs, leaning back against the booth.

“I don’t know. He drank…” the voices fade away, and then float back in. “Took some pills, and has been sitting in this booth ever since. Half-hour, I think. That’s when I first texted you.”

Another deep sigh. Whispers.

“Quentin. Where is your phone?”

His phone. He can call Eliot _with his phone_. Brilliant!

But he doesn’t have it. Damn.

“ _Goddammit_ Coldwater, where is your shit?”

Quentin frowns. Penny is not happy. But that just means he’s awake. “In my office,” he says, the words dripping out of his mouth. Then he closes his eyes, and the dark is so good. So warm.

Someone is nudging his arm. Fingers wrap around his bicep, long, strong fingers. He turns, smiling—it must be—

“Come _on_. Fucking move your feet.”

 _Penny_.

Quentin is moving, being lifted on his feet amid a smattering of grunts. “Jesus, you’re heavy.” Quentin lets himself be pulled up, stumbles into a strong body, wraps an arm around his waist. Mmm, smells nice, like oranges and musk.

“You smell nice,” Quentin says, inhaling deeply.

“Fuck off,” is the reply, which makes Quentin frown.

“You’re not like you smell,” he says. He leans into Penny, placing his head on his shoulder. He’s solid, warm. Maybe _this_ is his happy place. He _would_ conjure up a 'perfect' world that includes Penny being a dick to him.

~~~

Quentin comes back to consciousness in pieces. He’s not floating, or being carried, but he’s sitting, and whatever he’s sitting on is digging into the back of his thigh. It’s comfortable here, quiet, and he doesn’t know why, but he feels safe. He opens his eyes, or maybe they were never closed and he’s fallen back into his body from whatever high he’d been on.

He doesn’t remember being high. Which tracks, that he’d take a new magnificent wonder drug and then just forget all the happiness it was supposed to bring him. And even as he thinks that thought, it’s fading, and his eyes are drawn above him, like he expects to see a translucent thought bubble wafting away from his brain, floating and bumping into the ceiling.

“You okay, Q?” asks a voice next to him. He knows that voice, that smooth, silky lilt, that’s soft and firm all at once, wrapping around him, enveloping him.

“Eliot,” he says immediately, turning to him, a smile forming on his face. Eliot isn’t quite in focus, and Quentin blinks, looking around.

He’s in the Cottage. How did he get here? He’s sitting on the couch, a wine glass clutched between his fingers. The late evening sunlight is streaming through the front window, and that pain in his thigh is from the broken spring in the couch cushion. Even as he thinks, _Oh that’s irritating_ , the sensation disappears. A languid current of relaxation washes over him, whispers softly into his ear, and he closes his eyes for a moment as it settles over his skin, soaks into his bones. He’s home, at Brakebills, in the Cottage. Where he belongs.

An arm slides around his shoulders, and a warm, firm body presses into his side. _God_ it feels so _good_ , solid and real. He’s slotting right into place, a jolt of completion sparking through his torso, the kind he’s only ever felt when casting mending magics or when he’s with Eliot. _Eliot_. He turns his face towards Eliot, nuzzles up against his neck. He smells like raw cinnamon and spices, and Quentin inhales deeply. Something in his veins surges up, wanting to drag that scent, the essence of Eliot inside his body, until it’s melted into his sinew and bones.

“Someone’s feeling good,” Quentin hears, and he opens his eyes, drinking in the stark, vibrant, crystal clear image of Eliot smiling at him. Quentin doesn’t know if it’s the light or if he’s finally _really_ seeing Eliot for the first time, but he looks younger, happier, more alive than Quentin has ever seen.

“ _You_ feel good,” he says, giddiness surging up his torso, bubbling in his throat.

Eliot’s eyes are surprised and pleased as he beams at Quentin, curls his fingers into Quentin’s shoulder. Quentin tears his gaze away from Eliot’s face, traces down the rest of his body—his blue vest and gold tie bring out his bright hazel eyes, and his skinny trousers make his legs look even longer. Everything feels saturated, like one of those fancy filters Eliot always puts on his pictures he posts online. Eliot has a glass of red wine in his hand, which he reaches over and sets on the coffee table. Quentin stares at the wine; the vibrant dark red color is mesmerizing.

He turns back to Quentin, taking his glass of wine away from him, setting it next to his own. Then he settles back on the couch, wrapping his arm more firmly around Quentin, nudging his body towards Eliot. Quentin goes willingly, his fingers itching to touch, explore.

“Tell you what,” Eliot says, his other hand coming up to push a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. The touch reverberates through Quentin’s body, sending shivers of electricity through his neck and torso, all the way down to his toes. Eliot is hypnotic, this close, with his hazel eyes with flecks of green and his strong jawline. _For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night_. The phrase echoes in Quentin’s mind, in Eliot’s voice for some reason. He hardly has time to think about it before Eliot speaks again, out loud and not in Quentin’s head.

“Let’s not talk.” Then he leans down and presses his lips to Quentin’s.

It’s near euphoric, the waves of bliss and desire that crash through Quentin’s body. He moans into Eliot’s mouth, opening to him, his hands coming up to touch Eliot’s neck. Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s waist, pulling him in tighter, and Quentin shoves his hands into Eliot’s hair, tangles and pulls just in the way Quentin knows he likes.

Eliot breaks away, chuckling softly as Quentin’s mouths at his jaw, down his neck. His skin tastes so good, decadent and rich, like the best dessert. “So eager,” he says softly, breathless. “I had you pegged completely wrong.”

“Yeah?” Quentin whispers, nipping at Eliot’s ear as his hands travel down Eliot’s back, over his ribs. “How’d you… peg me?” He pulls at Eliot’s shirt, untucks it so he can get at the sliver of skin between his shirt and his pants.

“As some,” Eliot gasps as Quentin sucks right behind his ear, his fingers fisting into Quentin’s shirt, “nervous, awkward, hopefully bi-curious little first year that I’d have to spend months easing into before you’d even let me kiss you.”

Quentin chuckles, his hands low on Eliot’s waist, trying to maneuver under his criminally tight shirt and vest. “I’ll let you do whatever you want with me.” Eliot murmurs a reply, muffled by Quentin’s mouth on his, and Quentin’s hands travel up Eliot’s chest. His fingers stumble over something cold and metal, attached to Eliot’s vest.

Quentin pulls away, looking down at the pocket watch in his hands. It’s solid, ticking away. Quentin gives it an experimental tug, and it holds fast. He looks up Eliot, who’s smiling down at him, and suddenly they’re not in the Cottage anymore.

They’re on a beach, Eliot’s staring down at him, eyes red-rimmed, his cheeks tear-stained, a small smile on his lips. He’s wearing some fancy jacket, like fancy even for Eliot, and a crown made of muted blue and amber jewels. Something is in Quentin’s hand, and he looks down—it’s the pocket watch. He looks back up at Eliot, who’s staring at Quentin, his eyes dark and sad. He swallows hard before pulling Quentin into a long hug.

He pulls back and kisses Quentin on the mouth, cradling his face in his hands, Quentin’s upper lip fitting between his own. Quentin can feel the kiss on his mouth, his throat, his fingers, burning in his veins, and only Eliot’s hands keep him from toppling over from the force of emotion surging up inside of him.

When Eliot pulls back, he smiles sadly at Quentin.

“Sorry,” he says. “But you were kissing everybody else.”

Quentin frowns, confusion swirling through his mind, the watch cold in his hand. He looks down at it and—

The sun is shining in his face, and he lifts a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes. He’s not on a beach anymore, there’s grass and a small house, and tiles scattered everywhere. There’s a soft breeze, just barely moving the flap of his shirt as he looks at the scene in front of him.

Eliot is laid out a few feet away from him, in the center of some kind of frame, and several tiles are placed within the frame to form a picture; Quentin can’t tell exactly what it is. Eliot is on his back, smiling and laughing. His legs are raised in the air, straight and high, and balanced on the soles of his feet is a child, maybe six or seven years old, with sandy hair and a blazing smile. He’s all gangly, flailing limbs as he tries to hold onto Eliot’s hands, Eliot’s dirty feet pressing into his stomach. He’s squealing, his face lighting up as Eliot flexes his knees, lowering and raising him into the air. He doesn’t stop squealing and laughing the entire time. Quentin can’t think of any other moment in his life that seems as joyous as the one he’s witnessing right now.

He stumbles backwards, the backs of his knees hitting something, and he looks behind him to see that it’s a bed. He thinks that a bed being outside should bother him, but he can’t imagine why. He sits down on it, and as his eyes are drawn back to Eliot, he forgets any confusion as bliss and joy swell up inside him. Eliot turns his head towards Quentin, and smiles so broadly it’s all Quentin can see. He shifts in his seat, and sets his hand down on the bed, on top of something cold. He looks down and sees he’s holding the pocket watch. He picks it up, turning it over in his palm, and—

He’s back on a couch, not at the Cottage, but in Julia and Kady’s penthouse. He can see a dark sky through the tall windows looking over the balcony. Brilliant stars dot the pitch black canvas, twinkling so brightly Quentin can’t help but stare in amazement. He feels something against his palm, and looks down to see a hand clasped in his own. He looks to his left and it’s Eliot, head tilted back, laughing. He has glasses on, wire-rimmed, and he looks to Quentin, catches him staring. Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hand, leans over to drop a kiss on his forehead.

“How you doing?” he asks, still chuckling.

“Good,” Quentin says, starting to laugh as he realizes it’s _true_. Eliot’s smiling down at him, cheekbones and teeth everywhere, and Quentin thinks of the first time he picked up a Fillory book, the first time he had felt the whisper of his magic wrapping around his fingers, the first time he’d seen that luminous smile in the moonlight of the observatory tower.

He’s so light, so full of love, he doesn’t even know he’s doing it until Eliot’s lips are on his after Quentin’s pulled him in for a kiss. Another surge of euphoria rolls through Quentin’s body, and he can’t stop the small moan from leaving his throat. Eliot smiles against his lips as he wraps a hand around Quentin’s waist. Then he just completely goes for it, thrusting his tongue into Quentin’s mouth, pushing Quentin nearly onto his back on the couch. Quentin is completely caught up, sliding his hand into Eliot’s hair, holding him tight.

“Dude! Get off me.” Quentin is shoved towards Eliot, and he breaks away in surprise as Eliot starts laughing anew, pulling Quentin upright. Quentin looks around in confusion and suddenly realizes that they are not alone.

Not even close.

Penny is pushing himself against the arm of the couch, away from Quentin. “Go to your own damn apartment with that bullshit.”

“Aw, what’s the matter, Penny, you jealous?” Quentin’s head swivels over to Margo, who’s sitting on the arm of a short sofa. She’s smiling wickedly at them, cheerful and happy in a way Quentin’s never seen before. It suits her; she’s practically glowing in a tight skirt and blouse, crossing her legs as she leans one hand on the back of the chair.

The occupant of said chair is also smiling at them, and a new contentment surges through Quentin’s body as he realizes who it is. Julia, her hair in two pigtails, something Quentin hasn’t seen since their third year, is watching them, her eyes crinkling in amusement. Kady walks over and hands Julia a drink, and Julia’ smiles at her as she takes a small sip. Kady sits down next to Julia, holding her own beer as she rests her palm on Julia’s thigh.

“Hardly,” Penny says from next to Quentin, pulling Quentin’s attention back to him. Just like everyone else, Penny seems brighter than usual, his maroon shirt and blue scarf popping against the beige material of the couch. He sees Quentin staring at him and shrugs him off. “There should be a rule that you two can’t sit next to each other. I can’t concentrate on the movie if you two are jerking each other off right next to me.”

“It’s never bothered you before,” Kady says, smirking as Julia nudges her shoulder.

“Okay,” says another feminine voice, and Quentin’s heart threatens to shatter in his chest as he looks directly across the coffee table, to where Alice is sitting on the other couch. “Are we gonna rag on Penny or watch whatever fantasy movie Quentin picked this week?”

“Rag on Penny,” comes the chorus of replies, and Alice catches Quentin’s eye and smiles.

Quentin’s mouth drops open as he stares at her, drinks her in. _How is she here?_ he thinks, and then the thought is gone as quickly as it had appeared. She’s beautiful, incandescent, lighting up the room simply by existing. Her straight yellow blonde hair is falling around her shoulders, one side pulled back with a pearled barrett. Her deep blue eyes, so radiant behind her black-framed glasses, are warm and inviting as she takes a sip of her wine. She leans back against the couch, still looking at Quentin, tilting her head, the corners of her lips pulling up in the way they used to when Quentin would go off on one of his rambles about magic or Fillory or why he prefers his peanut butter smooth instead of creamy. His astonishment at seeing Alice floats away, replaced with a quiet fulfillment, a gentle rush of calmness as the noise in his mind dulls into a soft whisper, and then fades completely as Eliot’s arm slips around his shoulders. Quentin’s heartbeat slows and he shifts closer to Eliot, nestling into his side.

“Alright,” Margo says as she sits on the couch next to Alice. “Enough foreplay, let’s get this show going.” Eliot moves his hand in a tut, and the lights flicker off as Margo starts the movie.

Everyone focuses on the television, except for Quentin. His gaze roams around the room, from Penny to Alice to Margo to Julia to Kady and finally to Eliot. They talk, whisper, touch amongst each other, familiar and easy, like breathing. Quentin’s eyes want to drift shut, to just feel Eliot’s touch against his skin, bask in the love overflowing in the room, but he forces them to stay open. He wants to memorize the curve of Alice’s cheek as the light flickers across her face, the crinkle around Julia’s eyes as she whispers to Kady, how Margo nibbles on her bottom lip as she focuses, the way Eliot’s thumb swipes across Quentin’s shoulder, and even how Penny puts his hand over his mouth when he really, truly laughs.

He shifts in his seat and feels something move in his pocket. He reaches in and his fingers wrap around cool metal. He pulls out a silver pocket watch, exactly like Eliot’s. Well, almost exactly—he turns it over in his hands, and in the dim light, he can just barely make out an engraving.

_El & Q_

_NYE_

There’s a year underneath it, but it’s blurry, too dim to read. It’s warm in his hand, and then it’s glowing, a soft light that is reflecting off it, shining in a line leading out and Quentin looks up and—

Eliot is sitting in front of him in bed, wearing a silk robe and his underwear, smiling brightly. Quentin looks around and recognizes the cabin in Asheville. Quentin’s hand is still hovering in the air, but it’s now empty, and the pocket watch is in Eliot’s hand, glowing. The light fades as Quentin stares at it.

“Thank you,” Eliot says. “I love it. Way better than a Target gift card.” He leans in and kisses Quentin, wrapping his hand around the back of Quentin’s neck. As soon as Eliot’s fingers touch Quentin’s skin, a torrent of elation and lust surge through Quentin’s body, radiating out from Eliot’s fingertips down Quentin’s spine, bubbling through his veins.

He moans into the kiss, cradling Eliot’s face in his hands. Eliot licks into his mouth, the kiss growing sloppy, near desperate as Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s waist, reeling Quentin in tight against him. Quentin gasps as Eliot’s bare chest slides against his own, sparks of pleasure skittering all over his body. Quentin pushes forward, wrapping his legs around Eliot, sitting in his lap, shivering as his dick rubs against Eliot’s hard cock through their underwear.

“Quentin,” Eliot says, pulling away far enough to speak, his eyes dark as he stares at Quentin, “I love you.”

Quentin’s breath catches in his throat, and he feels—so much, happiness, tenderness, love pulsing, fluttering inside of him, clogging his mouth and his nose, and he exhales a shaky breath and says, “I love you, too. So much.”

Eliot pulls him into a fierce kiss and Quentin hears something—a sharp intake of air, and he sees, out of the corner of his eye, movement at the doorway. He looks but nothing is there and then Eliot’s hand is in his boxers, fingers wrapping around his dick and the only thing Quentin can focus on is Eliot, Eliot, Eliot—

—And they’re lying on the bed now, both naked, though Quentin has no memory of either one of them taking off their robes and boxers. Quentin’s legs are tightly wrapped around Eliot, his heels digging into the back of Eliot’s thighs as he thrusts his cock inside Quentin. Their hands are joined, fingers slotted together, Eliot pressing Quentin’s into the mattress with every movement.

Their eyes meet as Eliot thrusts hard and deep, every stroke sending carnal shockwaves of pleasure throughout Quentin’s entire body, Eliot’s stomach and hips dragging over Quentin’s cock. Quentin can’t look away; Eliot’s eyes are dark, intense, brimming with heat and an affection so tender Quentin has to fight the wave of tears in his throat.

Eliot tips his forehead down to rest against Quentin’s, and Quentin’s eyes close as Eliot’s hot breath fans across his lips. Quentin’s never felt this complete before, a silent and utter satisfaction reverberating through his body, mind, and soul. As their palms squeeze together, as Eliot’s breaths grow more ragged, as the pressure builds in Quentin’s thighs, there’s a crackling in Quentin’s chest as the jagged edges of his heart begin to fuse together. The pain and guilt he’s built up for so many years leak out, drain away, and Quentin can’t hold back the tears as he chokes out Eliot’s name.

“Eliot, I…” he gasps, arching up, squeezing Eliot’s hands as his orgasm slams into him. His words are lost in the waves of heady bliss that coast through his limbs, colors bursting behind his eyelids as he comes all over his belly.

“I know,” Eliot whispers into his ear. “I love you too.” And then he’s gone, spilling into Quentin, slick and spent as he presses his nose into Quentin’s cheek, licks the sweat off his neck.

Quentin stares up at the ceiling and he can hear a tick tick tick next to him, and he turns to see the pocket watch on the nightstand and—

He’s in his old dining room. Back home in Jersey, in his dad’s house, sitting in a chair at the dining room table, fully clothed. He blinks, and realizes he’s holding a model airplane in his hands. His dad sits across from him, a look of wonderment in his eyes.

“I am happy, Dad,” Quentin says, realizing as the words leave his mouth how true they are. He’s a magician, he’s in love, and his dad is sitting across from him, _alive_ and smiling.

Quentin hears a voice say his name, somewhere behind him, and Quentin ignores it as his dad leans forward. Ted is practically glowing, stark and vibrant in the beige dining room. He’s wearing that same old plaid shirt, the one he’s had for years, but it doesn’t look faded at all—it could be brand new, for how vivid and brilliant the red and white stripes are.

“I’m so glad to hear that, Curly Q.” Ted’s smile is big and grand, and he gently takes the plane from Quentin’s hands. “I always knew you were special.”

“ _Quentin_.”

The voice is sharper, closer, sounds familiar, and Quentin has no fucking time for it. His dad is just across the table, Quentin is happy, his life is _good_ , and he can tell his dad all about it. He grins wide, leaning back in his chair as his dad turns the plane around in his hands.

“It’s perfect,” Ted breathes, running his fingers along the plane wings.

A hand lands firmly on Quentin’s shoulder, causing him to jerk in surprise. He turns in his seat and looks up into the dark, tense eyes of Penny Adiyodi.

“Penny?” he says, his voice going up in the end. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and a chill runs down his spine. Penny shouldn’t be here. This is wrong. Quentin, his brow furrowed in confusion, turns back to his dad, who’s still staring at the airplane in his hands.

“ _Thank fucking god_ you have your clothes on,” Penny says, his hand sliding off Quentin’s shoulder.

Quentin looks between his dad and Penny, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. He felt so safe, content, but now something cold is creeping into his chest, making him want to tuck himself into his hoodie, hunch his shoulders down. “What—what are you doing here?” Quentin asks. “This is my dad’s house.”

“You’re fucking dreaming, dipshit,” Penny says in exasperation. “I’m in your head.”

Quentin nods slowly, watching his dad, who’s not reacting to Penny at all, still staring at the airplane. Quentin feels like that should mean something to him, but right now all he can focus on is Ted, smiling and breathing in front of him.

But Quentin can see now… it’s not right. Ted is too bright, all sharp edges and crisp corners, too… alive. Quentin swallows hard and whispers, “This isn’t real.” And as soon as the words leave his mouth, his dad pauses in place, his pleased expression frozen on his face.

It happens all over again, just like all those years ago. Earlier that day.

_I’m sorry, we did everything we could._

_Quentin, it’s your mom._

Quentin’s stomach drops out, gravity upends, bile is rising in his throat and he wants to close his eyes and drop his head into his hands but he can’t stop staring at his dad. Ted, the dining room table, the entire house shimmers and flickers as reality kicks in the door.

“Is it a spell?” Quentin asks, his voice cracking.

Penny looks down at him and sighs. “That’s why I’m here. You won’t fucking wake up. We got you to Julia’s place, and you seem fine, but it’s like you’re in a coma. Julia is going out of her mind. Danny said you took something. What was it?”

Quentin hardly hears him, still staring at his dad. He looks good, young, _healthy_. Quentin reaches out, to touch his hand—

“Quentin,” Penny says again, his hand settling gently on Quentin’s shoulder. “It’s not real,” he says softly. “What did you take?”

Quentin lets his hand fall to the tabletop. Of course it’s not real. It’s _good_ , how can it be fucking real? His dad is dead. He doesn’t have a room full of friends that he watches movies with every week. Eliot doesn’t love him.

He closes his eyes, and forces himself to focus. At the bar. Swallowing pills and tequila.

When Quentin speaks again, his voice is small. “Just something from Finn. I’m sure I’ll wake up soon.” _Too soon._

Penny’s hand squeezes Quentin’s shoulder, and releases as he sits down heavily in the chair next to Quentin. “Julia will call him. We’ll find out what it was.” Penny looks at Ted, still frozen in place.

“Q,” Penny say, softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

Quentin inhales a shaky breath, and forces himself to turn away from his dad. He chuckles as he faces Penny, a rueful smile on his face. “What a rollercoaster today. My mom dies, I’m currently on a really good bad trip, and you willingly apologize to me. What’s next, I find out Fillory is real and then it blows up?” Penny rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to retort, but Quentin pushes on, his tone more serious. “The only person who fucks me over is me, Penny. We all know that.”

Penny looks at him a moment, and then back to Ted. He clears his throat and says, “Julia wants to know if you want her to call Nigel.”

Quentin heart stutters in his chest. “What?” he asks.

“Nigel, your boyfriend, who I assume is whoever you were… with in that bedroom you were in just before you came here.” Penny looks at Ted, the wall, anywhere but at Quentin.

Quentin’s mouth goes dry. “You… you saw that?”

“Just like, a second, enough to know that I did not want to see any more. I do _not_ need _or want_ to hear or _see_ you and _Nigel_ doing… _whatever_.” Penny shakes his head, his eyes widening slightly like he can purge whatever he saw from his mind. “I got your phone from your office, Julia can text him if you want.”

Quentin looks back at his dad, still frozen in place, so happy and unassuming. Quentin had told him about magic, and his dad had been so joyful, so proud to hear that Quentin finally found somewhere he felt he belonged. Something that he was good at. Something that made him happy.

Eliot makes him happy. And right now he’s the only person in the world Quentin wants to see.

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly. “She can call him.”

Penny nods, and Quentin knows he’s about to travel away, back to reality. Maybe it’s the drugs coursing through his veins, but Quentin is seized with an incredible gratefulness for Penny. Before he can disappear, Quentin grabs his hand. Penny looks at it for a moment, and then to Quentin, one eyebrow arched in his direction.

“Thank you,” Quentin tells Penny. “I know—”

“Okay,” Penny says abruptly. He squeezes Quentin’s hand once, and then gets up, pulling away. “You’re obviously very upset right now; let’s not say anything we’ll both regret when you wake up.”

Quentin laughs, warmth returning to his chest, and he leans back in his chair. “Yeah, okay.”

Penny nods at Quentin once, and then disappears.

Quentin turns back to his dad, who’s still frozen in place. He’d died just a year or so after this conversation. Selfishly, Quentin is almost glad he didn’t live to see how badly Quentin would fuck it all up.

As he shifts in his seat, Quentin can feel a heavy weight move in his pocket, and he knows it’s the watch. He leaves it in place, not reaching for it, not touching it. A shimmer ripples through the air again, and Ted starts moving, setting the airplane down and beaming at Quentin.

“Hey, Dad,” Quentin says, leaning forward in his chair. “Tell me about your first date with mom.”

~~~

_Eliot_

Eliot takes another drag off his joint as he frowns at his phone. He’s been sitting alone in the Observatory Tower for the past thirty minutes. Quentin is late. Which isn’t unusual, but he’s never this late, not without texting. And if he isn’t late, then Eliot is being stood up.

He stands up and paces around the small space, kicking a few empty beer cans. Natty Light, god, how far did they have to travel to even spend money on that crap? Unfortunately Eliot is well-versed in how horrible it tastes; his dad drank it religiously and he had so much of it he never noticed when Eliot or his brothers would swipe a few cans.

Tutting his joint nub out of existence (at least he gets rid of his trash via magical landfill), he lights up another. He usually waits for Quentin before he smokes, but he needs something to stop the ball of anxiety from growing in his chest, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in weeks.

Eliot had expected that when they came back from the cabin, once they stepped through the portal onto the Brakebills campus, whatever spell had been cast over them in the mountainous woods of Asheville would be broken. Quentin had said they’d take it day-by-day, and to Eliot, that meant secret meetings and scorching hot text messages and phone calls.

He’d been wrong. They’d come back to Brakebills, Quentin had dropped off his luggage at his room and then spent the evening with Eliot in the Cottage, not seeming to care that they’d spent the last four days together. And Eliot realized, as Quentin had popped through that damn linen closet with a crooked grin on this face, that he didn’t care either—he wasn’t tired of Quentin. Far from it, the hours they spent together only left him desperate for more, like a junkie craving his next fix. He couldn’t get enough.

With the campus still mostly empty, it was easy to see each other nearly daily. Dinners at the cottage, sleeping together overnight, even lunch in the city with Margo. They’re still discreet, but the cabin has become a fixed point in Eliot’s timeline. He can’t tell the exact moment, but he’d realized the masks he’d worn his entire life, with his family, his teachers, and most of his friends, were no longer needed. Not with Quentin. He can throw them away, be who he is, and maybe, just maybe, be loved for it.

 _Love_. Eliot hasn’t told Quentin how he feels. Not with his _words_ , but maybe Quentin can tell. In the way Eliot looks at him, the stupid expression he knows is on his face when Quentin turns his nose up at a glass of pinot noir Eliot brought back from an exclusive winery in London, only to light up when he discovers an old bottle of Smirnoff Ice in the fridge. In the way Eliot kisses him when they say goodbye, hard and possessive, like he wants to brand Quentin on his lips because he doesn’t know how long the kiss will need to last him. How Eliot forgets himself sometimes when they’re in bed, and he’ll whisper random poetry or a line from a Shakespearean play in Quentin’s ear. It always makes Quentin melt into him, like he’s never had anyone try to subtly profess their love via 18th century sonnets before.

In the past few weeks, Eliot had nearly forgotten. That Quentin wasn’t just the man he was in love with, he was the man he wasn’t _supposed_ to be in love with. The start of term tomorrow is bittersweet, because while it means he’s one day closer to graduating and having the teacher-student designation removed from his relationship with Quentin, it also means his time with Quentin is going to get that much scarcer.

He sits down on the bench surrounding the tower and takes a deep inhale, closing his eyes as the smoke burns his throat. He exhales slowly as he ticks through the multitude of reasons why Quentin might be late.

  * He got held up at a staff meeting.
  * The Phosphoromancy Lab disappeared again and he has to help find it.
  * He got so high he forgot about their meeting and his phone is dead so he’s not getting Eliot’s messages.
  * He mended himself into a corner of his classroom and can’t get out of it.
  * Fogg found out about them and he fired Quentin. He’s being escorted off campus right now.
  * He found someone else that is his own age, not a student, and into all the geeky nerd stuff Eliot isn’t and he’s flown to Europe with them.
  * He’s realized Eliot is in love with him and he’s freaking out and ghosting.



Eliot pulls his pocket watch out, flips it over in his hand. The joint dangling between his teeth, he casts the incantation with his other hand, watching as a beam of light shoots out from the pocket watch. The interior of the tower is bathed in soft light, and Eliot tuts it out as he sighs. His phone is still dark on the bench next to him.

Okay, time to channel his inner Margo. _Stop moping and get moving_. Maybe he can swing by Quentin’s room and at least see if his light is on or something. That’s not stalkerish, right? He’s picking up his phone to put it in his pocket when it vibrates in his hand with a text message—from an unknown number.

_Unknown [10:04pm]_

_Hey Nigel, this is Julia Wicker. I’m Quentin’s friend, I got your number from his phone. Sorry to meet you like this, but it’s kind of an emergency. Quentin’s mom died and he’s not taking it very well. He said it was ok for me to contact you, if you want to come see him. He took something and is asleep right now, but should be up soon. I can send you my address. I think he would like to see you._

“Shit,” Eliot says, standing up, reading the text message again. _Fuck_. The ball of anxiety doubles in size, what the _fuck_ does he do now?

Okay well, first off, yeah, good reason for standing Eliot up. God, he’s a dick, thinking Quentin had—was—whatever, not the time. And he'd be lying if the fact that Quentin had gone to Julia and not him stung a little. Or a lot, really. But again, more important things to worry about.

Because he’s _met_ Julia. _Twice_. If he goes to her place, she’s going to _know_. That he’s Nigel. Or that Nigel is Eliot. Or that Nigel doesn’t fucking exist, whatever.

Eliot sits back down on the bench, still staring at the phone, bright in his hand, awaiting his response. He could ask Margo, see what she thinks? He dismisses that thought immediately; she’d tell him that it was too dangerous. And maybe it is. Maybe he should just pretend he hadn’t seen it, that Julia had gotten the number wrong.

But Quentin—he _asked_ for Eliot. Or Nigel. Whatever, Quentin needs him. And in truth, there’s really nothing else he needs to consider.

_Eliot [10:06pm]_

_What’s your address?_

~~~

Julia’s apartment is not far from the Brakebills portal to the city, probably by design, Eliot figures, given her frequent presence on campus. Eliot is walking into the front lobby of the admin building, typing out a text to Margo, trying to explain that _no_ , he’s _not_ crazy, _yes_ , he’s thought this through and _goddammit he’ll be fine_ when he runs smack into someone exiting the portal.

“Sorry,” Eliot says hurriedly, not even looking at who he ran into when a strong hand wraps around his bicep, stopping him in place. He looks up into the dark eyes of Professor Adiyodi.

“Uh, sorry,” Eliot says again, pulling out of the professor’s grip. He’s staring at Eliot like he’s grown a second head, his eyes narrowing.

Eliot has never interacted with Professor Adiyodi, although he’s certainly seen him enough on campus (and that one time in the faculty dorm when he crept past him behind an invisibility ward while Quentin distracted him with the worst card trick Eliot had ever seen). He only teaches Psychic classes, which Eliot never had any need to take, although he’d considered an elective or two. Purely for the scenery, really, because psychic classes were really only effective for psychics. Adiyodi is attractive, to put it mildly, and Eliot always admired his ability to select the perfect color suit and tie to bring out his dark skin tone and intense eyes.

His off-the-clock wardrobe is also a thing of beauty, in an entirely different way, featuring sweaters and shirts open to his navel, leaving his glorious pecs and abs on full display. Sadly, right now he’s wearing just a button-down shirt and jeans. But even in casual wear, Professor Adiyodi looks vaguely obscene, like his buttons are ready to pop open at any moment, revealing his dark chest hair, just waiting to transform him into the bodice ripping romance novel cover model that he definitely is. Eliot is surprised that Adiyodi actually made an effort to button his shirt; he thought the professor forgot how to use real buttons as soon as his last class ended.

Forcing his gaze to Adiyodi’s face, which Eliot doesn’t think he’d ever call friendly even on his best day, is downright hostile right now. Eliot automatically takes a step back, his eyes darting between the professor and the sweet freedom behind the portal just a few feet away.

“You’re a _student_ ,” Adiyodi says, with a weird emphasis on the last word, and Eliot nods. He has no idea what put a bug up Adiyodi’s ass, but best to just nod and smile until he can go. Eliot probably shouldn’t be leaving campus this late on a school night, but there’s no rule against it. And it’s hardly the first time.

“Yes,” he confirms. The professor continues to stare at him, and Eliot rushes on, his face growing warm under Adiyodi’s examination. “I, um, a friend has an emergency, and I—”

“What’s your name?” Adiyodi cuts him off, his jaw set.

“Eliot.” As Adiyodi continues to pin him down, he adds, “Eliot Waugh.”

The professor nods slowly and rolls his eyes, looking away, raising one hand to his brow. Then, without another word, he turns and stalks away.

Eliot stares after him for a moment, the ball of anxiety in his stomach growing an inch or two larger. Then he puts it out of his mind and steps through the portal, out of the Brakebills admin building and into a deserted New York City alley.

The walk to Julia’s building is short, and Eliot spends it going back and forth between worrying about Quentin and worrying about whatever is gonna happen when she opens the door. He doesn’t know Julia; for all he knows she might not even let him in once she realizes that Nigel is Eliot. And that Nigel doesn’t exist.

There’s no doorman or intercom on Julia’s building, but there are wards, and Eliot feels them tingle as he walks through. He’s not sure what kind of wards they are, if they keep out muggles or people who want to talk to you about Jesus, but they let him right in, which is all he really cares about. As Eliot selects Julia’s floor, he realizes she’s in the penthouse. It shouldn’t surprise him that a magician lives on the top floor of a nice building on the lower east side, but it does, for some reason. He just never imagined the Julia that Quentin described as one who’d opt for the top floor and all its grandeur.

But he doesn’t know Julia, Eliot reminds himself as he approaches her door, his phone in his hand, open to Julia’s text message, as he double checks the apartment number. Or her wife, Kady. But he knows they love Quentin. Just like he does. Well maybe not _just_ like he does, but they love him. And that gives him the extra boost of courage he needs to knock on the door.

The door opens quickly, and Eliot finds himself looking at… not Julia. A beautiful woman with fierce, dark curls ( _fierce_ is the only way Eliot can think to describe them, and even that word doesn’t do them justice; he can practically feel his own hair receding in inferiority when placed next to hers) and green eyes that seem to skewer him on the spot stares at him. “You Nigel?” she asks.

“Um,” Eliot says hesitantly. “Yes?” He holds his phone, Julia’s text message, up to say _See? It’s me? Not the me you think I am, but the me that I actually am?_ “You’re… Kady?” he asks, still hesitant.

Her gaze flickers between Eliot’s phone and his face, and then down to his feet and back up again, and Eliot resists the urge to squirm under her gaze. Finally, one corner of her mouth pulls up in what Eliot suspects is the closest he’ll get to a smile. She nods once and then steps back to allow Eliot inside.

She closes the door behind him, and Eliot takes in the posh, elegant penthouse. He’s not sure what he expected, maybe something spartan like Quentin’s room, or full of books and wall art Eliot doesn’t really get, like his office. And there _is_ a wall lined with full bookshelves, although he can tell even from a distance that the tomes are more magically inclined then typical fantasy.

But the rest of the apartment is comfortable while still retaining an aura of class, with eye-catching art prints on the wall and soft, overstuffed furniture. It has an open floor plan, and to his right is a gorgeous kitchen that he hopes Julia and Kady use more than Quentin would.

“I’ll go get Julia,” Kady says, hardly sparing him another glance, focusing down on her phone, texting. “She’s in the guest room.”

“Um,” Eliot says, the anxiety in his stomach starting to drown under the wave of worry rushing through his chest. “Is he okay?” He feels utterly off-kilter, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt in a long while.

Kady shrugs. This time he really does squirm as she looks away from her phone and focuses on Eliot. “He’s passed out. But he’s stuck in a magical dreamland and not covered in his own vomit like he usually is when he’s here, so I guess it’s a step up from the norm.”

 _Stuck in a magical dreamland?_ A flicker of possessive anger lights up in his belly, nearly burning up all the anxiety that had been there for the last hour. Eliot remembers how Quentin described Kady when they were at dinner in Asheville. A fiery physical kid who could kill you with a look and slice you in half with one hand tied behind her back, and who would do anything for her friends and family. Leader of one of the largest covens in the city. Eliot feels like this is some kind of test, and as she peers closely at him, looking for a reaction, Eliot decides he doesn't really give a shit. “Can I see him, please?” he asks, straightening up and fixing her with his most steely stare.

The corner of her mouth pulls up again as she crosses her arms and eyes him up and down. Eliot opens his mouth to say something he’ll probably regret when the sound of a door softly closing at the other side of the penthouse makes them turn. Julia is walking their way, pushing her hair out of her face as she extends her hand.

“Hey Nigel, I’m so sorry we have to meet like—” she stops as she gets close enough to get a good look at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “You—sorry, I thought you were someone else. You’re Quentin’s student, right? Eliot? What are you doing here?”

 _Here we go_. He looks between Julia and Kady, and then at the back bedroom door, silently damning Quentin in his head. His mouth drops open, but no words come out.

“You said _you_ were Nigel,” Kady says accusingly, her arms dropping to her sides, widening her stance. The threat of being blasted across the room by battle magic helps Eliot find his voice real fast.

“No, I—” he starts, only to be interrupted by Julia.

“No, this is Eliot,” Julia says to Kady. She turns to him— “Do you know Nigel?” Eliot opens his mouth to respond, and this time Kady interrupts.

“He has Nigel’s phone, or at least your text message. What’s the deal, dude?” Kady turns to him, her hands starting to rise threateningly.

Suddenly all of the frustration and anxiety drains out of Eliot, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its place. He sinks down on the couch, saying, “Put your fingers away.” He holds up his phone, with Julia’s text message on it. “This is _my_ phone. I am Nigel. Or, well, Nigel is me. Eliot. I’m Eliot. Nigel… doesn’t exist.”

Kady is the first to respond; she rolls her eyes and turns away, sinking down into the couch opposite Eliot. “You are fucking kidding me.”

Julia stares at Eliot, her mouth set in a thin line. “You?” she asks, her tone severe. “ _You’re_ Nigel? The hot boyfriend that Quentin’s been seeing for months?”

Eliot clears his throat, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Guilty as charged.” He looks back up at her. “Can I see him now?”

“No,” she says shortly. A spark of rage flickers inside Eliot’s chest again, but Julia cuts him off before he can say anything about it. “Are you fucking _for real_ right now? Quentin has been dating his _student_? For _months_? He went to the cabin with _you_?” She runs her hands through her hair, pacing up and down the living room.

“Oh my god,” she says, turning to look accusingly at Eliot. “ _That’s_ why he never wanted to send me a picture. Or tell me _anything_ at all about you.” _Ouch_. Eliot looks down at the floor, pressing his lips together as something sharp stabs in his chest. It’s not a surprise. Obviously Quentin wouldn’t talk about him. He can’t; Eliot’s not supposed to exist. And Quentin doesn’t have a Margo, who knows about them, that he can talk to. Margo, who told Eliot yesterday if he said another word about Quentin she’d stuff his mouth full of the pork rinds Todd had brought into the Cottage one night when Eliot wasn’t around.

But it still hurts to hear it confirmed by Quentin’s best friend.

Julia is still pacing, her arms flailing as she speaks. “Just—what part of you thought it would be a _good idea_ to _sleep_ with your _depressed professor_?” She turns to him, an expectant look on her face.

Eliot looks up at her, raises his eyebrows. “Do you really want me to answer that question?”

Julia lets out a noise of exasperation and goes back to her pacing, and Eliot glances over at Kady. She’s not looking at Julia, but at Eliot, that same weighing look on her face, like she’s judging him more by the minute. It makes Eliot’s blood boil, and he’s staring back at her when Julia whirls back on him. “God, _you_ were the one who told me ‘Nigel’”—she did the air quotes with her fingers—“was hot. Was that funny to you? This isn’t a fucking joke—”

“Okay, _stop_ ,” Eliot says firmly. He’s tired, stressed, and just wants to see his goddamn… person. “Nothing about this is a _fucking joke_ to me. Not the fact that I fell in love with my professor, which, cliche, yeah, but whatever, it happened. Not the fact that I can’t tell anyone about it, lest he get fired, or I get expelled. It’s not a _joke_ that in order to see him, even just for a fucking half hour, we have to plan and sneak around. It isn't funny that, after three months of being together, we got to go out on an _actual date_ for the _first time_ halfway across the fucking country, because _maybe_ that was far enough away that no one would recognize us. And it’s certainly not a joke that his mom died, and I had to decide if being there to support him was worth the consequences of telling his closest friends that I fucking _exist_. Now _can I please see him_?”

He stands up, looking between Kady and Julia. Julia is staring at him in shock, her mouth hanging open. Kady sits forward, her elbows on her knees, one hand curled over her mouth, her eyes lighter than Eliot’s seen so far this evening.

“Yeah, you can go see him,” Kady says softly, nodding towards the door Julia had come out of. "He took something that knocked him out, so he’s not responsive. But he should wake up by morning." Eliot nods, and after one last glance at Julia, who’s still staring at him, he heads towards the back bedroom.

The only light in the room comes from a small lamp next to the bed, casting shadows across the small room. It’s sparsely decorated, just a few framed art prints on the wall. The only furniture is the bed, and a dresser on one side. Quentin is laid out on the bed, on his side, one blanket covering him.

Eliot walks the few steps to the bed, sits down on the edge. Quentin’s chest is rising and falling evenly, his lips parted slightly. Eliot doesn’t think he’s seen Quentin look so peaceful since that first night at the cabin. When Eliot had woken up first and just watched him sleep for a little while.

“Hey,” Eliot whispers, picking up Quentin’s hand that is resting on top of the covers. He slots their fingers together and squeezes, and is surprised to feel Quentin squeeze back. Eliot looks at Quentin’s face, hoping he’s woken up, but his eyes are still closed. Eliot can see his pupils moving under his eyelids, and he remembers what Kady said—magical dreamland.

Seeing Quentin with his own eyes, feeling his warm skin beneath Eliot’s fingertips, releases a weight Eliot hadn’t even realized was weighing him down. He brings Quentin’s hand up to his mouth and brushes his lips over Quentin’s knuckles. The past two hours, waiting for Quentin in the observatory, Julia texting him, rushing to the city, not knowing what would be waiting for him; Eliot had been holding his breath the entire time. Now he can exhale, relax his muscles, even if it’s just for a minute. Before he has to go back to Kady’s suspicious eyes and Julia’s distrustful glare.

Eliot sighs, reaching over to cup Quentin’s face, run his thumb over his cheekbone. Quentin leans into the touch, muttering something, and then presses his face closer to the pillow, forcing Eliot to move his hand so it doesn’t get trapped under Quentin’s face. Quentin frowns and nestles into the pillow, tugging the hand holding Eliot’s up to his chest. He sighs happily before settling back down into sleep.

Eliot sits with him for several minutes, their hands clasped together, wishing Quentin would wake up, but also wanting him to sleep, to stay in his happy place for as long as he can, before he has to face the reality waiting for him. There’s nothing Eliot would like more than to curl up in bed next to him, and sleep until Quentin wakes up, whenever that may be. Then not only would he be there when Quentin opens his eyes, but there would also be the added bonus of not having to face the two angry magicians in the front room alone.

But he still has no idea what is actually going on with Quentin. How his mom died, and how he wound up in Julia’s guest room. Clearly he took something stronger than an Ambien, and Eliot has no idea what the comedown is like from visiting your magical happy fantasyland. Probably stronger than your standard hangover.

Eliot leans over and kisses Quentin on the forehead, gently extracting his hand from Quentin’s. Then he softly walks to the door, looking over his shoulder for one last look at Quentin curled up in bed.

He finds Julia and Kady sitting at the small dining room table. Julia’s eyes are red-rimmed, her hands wrapped around a mug. Kady sits next to her, one hand gently stroking up Julia’s back while the other is holding her own mug.

“What happened?” he asks expectantly, tossing his jacket over the chair next to him.

“You want tea?” Kady asks him. It’s At Eliot’s nod, she slips away into the kitchen.

“So,” Julia starts, her voice breaking slightly, “his mom died this morning. Car accident. Penny and Henry told him this afternoon, and he, uh…” She wipes at her cheeks, stands up straighter. “He went to the bar, and got drunk.” She sighs as she says it, looking down at her mug. “We know the bartender, he calls us when Quentin, um, has a little too much.” She looks up at Eliot, like she’s not sure she should be telling him this.

It’s not a surprise to Eliot—he knows Quentin goes overboard with how much he drinks or inbibes; he’s seen it himself. But the glazed look in Julia’s eyes, the slump of her shoulders, tell Eliot she’s seen the worst of Quentin too many times.

“Anyway, we got him from the bar, and he was out of it…” she trails off, then focuses back on Eliot. “He asked for you, actually, although I thought he was just so drunk and high he didn’t know what he was saying.” Kady reappears, sliding a mug over to Eliot, who takes it, wrapping his hands around it, letting the warmth permeate his fingers. The strong smell of chamomile wafts up to his nose, but he’s too focused on Julia to take a sip.

“That happens a lot?” Eliot asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

“Yes,” Kady says immediately.

“Not lately,” Julia adds, glancing at Kady. “Quentin, he’s…” she looks up at Eliot, her gaze flickering between him and his tea. “Look, I don’t know what you know about him, but he’s… been through a lot.”

Eliot nods slowly, staring at the liquid in his mug. He looks back up to Julia. “I, uh, I can tell that. I think most people can,” he says, ignoring Kady’s snort at his words. “I don’t know the details—just that he had a girlfriend that died while he was at Brakebills, and his dad died too. He doesn’t really talk about it.”

“No shit,” Kady says, her eyebrows lifting.

Julia sighs. “He took some pills that are laced with some kind of illusion magic that takes you into happy memories, or dreams, I’m not really sure. We couldn’t wake him up, and we…”she shifted in her seat, “figured out who got them from. Kady... contacted him and Q should be fine; he should be awake by the morning.”

Eliot is still nodding, still staring into his coffee. “He didn’t call anyone?” Eliot asks.

“No,” Julia says. “He didn’t have his phone with him; a friend got it from his office. That’s how I got your number.”

Eliot swallows as he sits back in his chair. Quentin didn’t call him. He didn’t call anyone. His first instinct was to obliterate the bad news the easiest way he knew how; through a bottle or a pill. It’s an urge Eliot can completely understand; it was how he lived the majority of his life.

So then why does it hurt so much that Quentin’s instincts would lead him to a bar instead of to Eliot?

Eliot meets Julia’s gaze across the table. “Thank you,” he says, “for texting me. We were supposed to see each other tonight.”

“What do you guys do, meet in the observatory tower or the library basement or something?” Kady asks.

“Something like that,” Eliot says. They sit in silence for a moment, Eliot turning Julia’s words over in his mind. He knew Quentin was keeping parts of himself hidden away, big, bold parts that Eliot suspected terrified Quentin on a daily basis.

But Eliot loves every part of Quentin: the bright, dorky parts, the jagged, bratty parts, the blurry, awkward parts, and especially the shitty, fucked-up parts that Quentin buries so far down he hopes no one ever sees them.

Eliot sees them. Or, he wants to see them. If Quentin is ever willing to unearth them. For Eliot.

“I’m sorry,” Julia says suddenly, pulling Eliot from his thoughts. She’s looking at him, a stricken expression on her face. “For what I said earlier. I just… it was a shock. I can’t believe he’d…” she trails off. _Be involved with you._

“Can’t you?” Kady asks. “No offense,” she says to Eliot, who sets his jaw, mentally preparing for whatever’s coming. “But Quentin’s never been the poster child for making healthy choices,” she tells Julia. “How many times are you gonna drag his ass back from whatever bar or apartment or he’s passed out at—”

“Okay, please stop,” Julia says, putting a hand up towards Kady. Eliot can tell from the look on her face that this isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument. “I can’t do this right now.”

Kady falls silent, her mouth pursed. Julia focuses on Eliot. “Did you mean it?” she asks. At Eliot’s questioning look, she continues, “You’re in love with him?”

Eliot closes his eyes and swallows. It’s suddenly hot in here, and he resists the urge to tug at his shirt collar. “I, uh,” he says. “We haven’t—like, I haven’t—uh, said it, but. Yeah. I am.” He whispers the last sentence, swallowing down the tears burning in this throat.

Julia and Kady exchange a glance, and Kady exhales hard through her lips. “I sure could use a beer right now,” she says. Julia reaches over and threads her fingers through Kady’s.

“Look, Eliot,” Julia says. She pauses for a moment, searching for the words, and then continues, “Quentin, he… after Alice died, it was… really bad. Like we were afraid to leave him alone, bad. It still is, sometimes.” She looks down at her hand, joined with Kady’s, and Eliot’s gaze drifts to the door of the back bedroom, where Quentin is sleeping.

“I never thought I’d see him love anyone, or anything, again,” Julia continues. “But these past few months, he’s been… almost like the Quentin I knew. The one I grew up with. Who used to talk about magic and Fillory and… _possibility_.” She gazes at Eliot, and a sad smile crosses her lips. “He’s not drinking as much, he smiles more, and I can’t believe someone that’s not me got him to buy new clothes. That _fit_. And look _really_ good.” She’s full out smiling now, and Eliot can’t help but grin back, even as tears form in his eyes. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear someone tell him he was good for Quentin until the words rang in his ears. “Like he’s been asleep for so many years, and he’s finally waking up. Remembering who he used to be.” She sniffles, reaches up and wipes away tears. “And I think it’s because of you.”

Eliot chuckles, feeling a little manic from the rollercoaster his emotions have been on the past few hours. “It wasn’t easy,” he says. “He only let me pick out a few things, and I tried to talk him into getting rid of at least some of his hoodies, but not even I can accomplish the impossible.” Even Kady cracks a smile, and for a moment, the tension at the table dissipates, and Eliot feels like they could almost be friends.

But then Julia’s smile drops off her face, and she focuses back on Eliot. A shiver runs down his spine, and he knows he’s not going to like whatever she’s about to say next.

“His bad days are _bad_ , Eliot. And this… this isn’t the worst. Some nights when the phone rang, I didn’t know if it would be Quentin on the other end, or some stranger telling me they’d found him unconscious, or worse.” She leans forward, and Eliot sits back in his seat. “Look, this entire thing is just… it’s all shitty. I love Quentin. So much. We _both_ do,” she says, looking at Kady, who rolls her eyes and nods.

“He’s been my best friend for most of my life. But Quentin is not _easy_ to love. Okay? He’s... destructive and selfish, and he can’t see the forest for the fucking trees. He’s so fucking _capable,_ of _so much_ , but he’s so paralyzed by guilt from all the shit that he thinks is his fault, that if he ever found something that made him happy, I don’t know if he’d even know it.” She takes a deep breath, and glances down at the table. “You seem like a good guy, Eliot. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Eliot barks out a laugh. “Look,” he says. “There’s obviously a lot I don’t know. About Quentin. His past, and your past, and all the tragic backstories we all carry around every day. But really, when it comes down to it, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I know he’s damaged. I know he has baggage. He’s _never_ been shy about that. And also, you’re wrong.” He almost enjoys how Julia’s eyes tighten when he says that, as Kady watches him warily. “I’m not a good guy. I’m kind of a dick, honestly. And I’m more familiar with death than anyone should be. So maybe next time get a little more information before you start judging who can handle what.” Crossing his arms, he adds, “And he’s not selfish. He’s _lost_. There’s a difference.”

There’s a tense silence as they stare at each other, and Kady breaks it with a small chuckle. “Gotta give it to Quentin,” she says. “He sure can pick ‘em.” She gets up, picking up their mostly full coffee mugs and, at seeing the look on Eliot’s face, says, “That’s not an insult.” She winks at him as she turns to the kitchen.

Julia sighs. “You can stay here tonight if you want to. On the couch, or with Q. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you when you wake up.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says. “I’d like to stay.” Julia nods, and then stands to follow Kady. “Julia?” Eliot calls after her. She turns and looks at him expectantly.

“Thank you,” he says. “Not just… but for the cabin. I know, if you’d known, you wouldn’t have… but it was…” he trails off, glancing away. “It was really nice.”

Julia looks at the floor, and then nods at him. “The bathroom’s over there, if you need it,” she says, pointing to the hallway. Then she heads into the kitchen.

Eliot uses the bathroom, and uses one of Julia’s ridiculously soft hand towels to wash his face. He looks into the mirror, his hair isn’t too messed up from running his hands through it for the past two hours. There are dark circles under his eyes though, and he feels more tired than he looks. He thinks.

He goes back into the living room and walks near the kitchen, where Julia and Kady are talking quietly. He stops just short of walking into their line of sight when he hears Kady say his name.

“Penny called back. Confirmed that Eliot’s a student there. A physical kid.” He hears Kady chuckle. “He hung up fast, didn’t seem to want to chat.”

Julia sighs. “I don’t know what to do, Kady. His mom just died. Like, _today_. He was doing so much better, and now this, and Eliot, and I just… I don’t know how to help him.”

“Come here, baby,” Kady says, and Eliot hears them shuffling, Julia sniffling. Eliot knows he’s intruding, but he can’t help himself. Kady says her next words so low, Eliot almost misses them. “You can’t help someone that doesn’t want it, Julia. We’ve talked about this. There’s nothing we can do until Quentin… lets us. You can’t keep bailing him out like this.”

Eliot’s chest constricts; the words of his therapist from those few sessions last year flooding back to him. _You have to_ want _this to work in order_ for it _to work, Mr. Waugh._ Eliot steps forward and clears his throat. They turn to him, Kady’s arms still loosely around Julia’s waist. “I’m, ah, going in Quentin’s room. I’ll wait for him to wake up.”

Julia nods at him. “Come get me when he’s up?” she asks.

Eliot nods, and turns away. The low murmur of their voices follow him as he walks to the back bedroom.

Quentin is just as Eliot left him, on his side, sleeping peacefully. Eliot takes off his shoes and socks, sitting down on the bed next to Quentin. He types out a really vague text to Margo, letting her know he was safe with Quentin, and would be back tomorrow. His only class is late in the afternoon, and hopefully he’ll be back on campus by then. And if not, well, they never really do much on the first day anyway. He sets his phone down without waiting for a response… he doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with Margo right now.

He _probably_ shouldn’t strip down to his boxers since Julia walking in to him in his underwear with Quentin is probably crossing some sort of line in this weird-ass arrangement they’ve got going on, so he lays down next to Quentin in his pants and button-down. He turns on his side, facing Quentin, and gently reaches out and holds his hand again. He can’t stop the smile that spreads on his face as Quentin presses his hand back to his chest, sighing.

“Sleep well, gorgeous” Eliot tells him, leaning forward to press a kiss against Quentin’s lips. “As Shakespeare would say, tomorrow is probably going to suck balls in the worst way.”

~~~

tbc in Chapter 11: Section 6.4 - Case Study: Forging and Acknowledging Deeper Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter focuses heavily on the death of Quentin’s mom and his dad and his reaction to that (spoiler alert: it ain’t healthy). It’s all over the chapter, so not a real way to skip around it. It includes Quentin drinking heavily and taking drugs, being a dick, and slipping into a dream state where he experiences various happy scenarios, including talking to his Dad.


	11. Section 5.12 - Case Study: Forging and Acknowledging Deeper Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those angsty tags? In full effect here and for the next couple chapters. This chapter is pretty hardcore, the next is probably the worst of the entire story. Also there is discussion of suicidal thoughts/references in this chapter. Please take care of yourself.
> 
> I definitely played with the niffin lore, as we don't know a ton about it. 
> 
> Also, I took an extra week before posting to get caught up, and I'm somehow even more behind now than I was two weeks ago. Chapter 12 is in my beta's hands, but Chapter 13 is a bear so far. I'm hoping to keep my weekly schedule now until the end, but there may be another week delay. Thank you for bearing with me!

_Quentin_

Quentin’s eyes slowly blink open, and even without the dim light from the bedside lamp, he immediately knows he’s in Julia’s apartment. The firmness of the guest room mattress he’s laying on, the smell of the laundry detergent on the bed sheets, and the gentle hum of the central heat in the vents are all very familiar to Quentin. 

He quickly closes his eyes, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of the dreamscape he’s been encased in. It’s like his memories are stored on a wooden shelf in his brain, and he’s trying desperately to make room for everything he wants to keep from the past several hours. He’s shoving aside brilliantly lit pictures of practicing magic at Brakebills, of kissing Alice in the hallway outside her room, of Eliot’s face colored by bright strobe lights. There are also dozens of glass bottles full of dark, stormy liquid that he tries to handle with care, lest he drop them and they shatter, covering him in the noxious remains of the worst days of his life.

The pictures he can easily pick up and rearrange, swap them around, but no matter how much he pulls and prods, he can’t move those bottles. Every horrible memory is stuck to the surface, refusing to give up it’s space. And if he were to step back and look at the entire shelf, the rickety structure that holds every moment that makes him who he is today, the bright spots would provide hardly enough light for him to see his hand in front of his face.

The images of his Dad and Alice, smiling and alive, are already fading, along with Eliot’s hand tucked into his, the feel of his breath blowing across Quentin’s ear as he says _I know. I love you too_. But not everything is floating away—Quentin can still feel a warm, heavy weight pressed into his back, an arm slung over his waist, and breath flowing over the back of his neck. He slowly opens his eyes, silently giving thanks that he can hold on to something good from last night, when he realizes those sensations aren’t memories. They’re real fucking life, and someone is tucked into bed with him.

He panics for a moment— _what the fuck did I do last night_ —when the person behind him mumbles, and relief breaks over Quentin. He knows that sleepy grumble very well by now.

His relief quickly morphs into a near panic because Eliot is wrapped around him _in Julia’s guest room_. And unless Eliot learned how to fly (Could he fly? Some magicians skilled in telekinesis could fly. How could Quentin have never asked him that before? Surely if he could fly he would have mentioned it?), the only way he could have gotten into this bed was if Julia and Kady let him into the penthouse and— _Dear god, they know_.

Quentin’s breath hitches and Eliot’s body jolts, and then relaxes. His palm slides up to Quentin’s hip, underneath his shirt, squeezing the bare skin. 

“Hey, baby,” he whispers groggily. “You awake?”

Quentin forces his body to relax, and turns around to face Eliot, tucking into the nook under Eliot’s chin. Eliot wraps both arms around Quentin and squeezes, and something in the way he touches Quentin, how he inhales against Quentin's scalp, opens up the floodgates. Quentin doesn't know if he’s finally registering that he’s lost yet another person in his life, or the comedown from the pills or just the fact that he can’t remember the last time he woke up after a shitty night to someone so willing to hold him, want him, love him.

He’s sobbing into Eliot’s shirt, tears soaking through the fabric, grasping at Eliot’s waist as Eliot’s chin rests on the top of his head, his hands slowly rubbing up and down Quentin’s back. He holds Quentin tight, muttering softly, telling Quentin’s he’s okay, he’s safe, he’s here for him. It just makes Quentin cry harder, snot dripping from his nose as their legs tangle together.

He’s utterly spent when he pulls away from Eliot, his mouth full of cotton and exhaustion weighing him down, even though he just slept for several hours. He wipes his nose as Eliot’s fingers brush the tears from his cheeks.

“Sorry.” Quentin hiccups, looking down at the wet spot on Eliot’s shirt. “I’ll get that cleaned for you.”

Eliot chuckles, pulling Quentin into another hug. “I really could not give any less of a shit,” he says, squeezing Quentin again. “Let me go grab some water.”

Eliot slips out of the bedroom and Quentin sits up, wiping at his face again. His phone is on the nightstand, and he grabs it—5:05am. He sets it back down—he was supposed to teach a class this afternoon. But he has the week off now, to deal with his mom's death. Apparently a week is all it'll take.

Eliot, though, he should have class today. He should be at the Cottage, sleeping in his own bed before starting the first day of term. Not dealing with his emotionally wrecked… person, sleeping in a strange bed in the city.

Eliot slips back in, two bottles of water in his hand. He gives one to Quentin, and opens the second for himself. As soon as the water touches Quentin’s tongue, he realizes how parched he is, and he guzzles the entire bottle as Eliot watches. It’s the best thing he’s tasted all day.

“Thank you,” he tells Eliot, setting the empty bottle next to his phone. He turns back to him— “Eliot, I’m so sorry for all of this. I’m sorry I didn’t show up last night, and you have class today, and I’m—fuck, I’m so—” His breath starts to hitch, and Eliot quickly grabs Quentin’s wrists, circles his fingers around them.

“Q,” he says. “It’s okay. Just breathe, baby.” 

Quentin locks onto Eliot’s kind eyes, and slides his palms down to touch Eliot’s, to slot their fingers together as he takes a deep breath. His heart slows down and his throat loosens up as Eliot gives him a small smile.

“I realize this is a stupid question,” Eliot says, leaning back against the pillows, still holding Quentin’s hands, “but how are you feeling?”

Quentin nestles into Eliot’s side against the headboard, turning into face him, curling up his legs. He pulls one hand out of Eliot’s grasp so he can tug at Eliot’s collar, popping open a button so he can reach in and rub at Eliot’s chest. Anything to touch his skin.

“I’m… not great,” he says slowly. Then he catches Eliot’s eye, “but better now that I’m with you.” A corner of Eliot’s mouth pulls up, and Quentin sighs. “Julia called you?” He has a vague memory of Penny asking to call Nigel, in his dream, but even that feels like it happened in another lifetime.

“Yeah, she texted,” Eliot says, turning his body slightly towards Quentin. His skin looks pale, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than Quentin has ever seen them.

“How long have I been asleep?” Quentin asks, his hand falling from Eliot’s chest onto the bed between them.

Eliot picks it up idly, looking at their joined hands as he answers. “Julia texted me around 10 last night. I think you’d been out a couple hours already. She said you took something?” Eliot’s voice is quiet, looking into Quentin’s face as his fingers wrap around Quentin’s wrists, caress over his palms.

Quentin’s eyes close as he realizes what all that means. Julia knows about Eliot. So does Kady. And Eliot had to deal with it all while he was passed out, high, drunk, whatever. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Quentin whispers, his head thudding against the headboard. “I… Henry and Penny told me about Mom, and… I mean she and I weren’t close, like at all, but… she’s still my mom. And it brought back… a lot.” He glances over at Eliot, who’s silent, giving Quentin the space he needs. Sometimes when Quentin talks to Julia, while she’s always, _always_ ready to listen and help, sometimes he can see a cloud of judgement in her eyes, a whisper of _are-you-ever-going-to-fucking-move-on_? He sees nothing of that in Eliot’s face, only naked acceptance and even a muted understanding. “I just… wanted to forget. And the pills did that. For a little while.”

Eliot nods, glancing away. Quentin watches his eyes cloud over, hurt and fear overshadowing the concern. “I think you really scared Julia,” he says quietly.

“Eliot, I’m so sorry,” he says, squeezing Eliot’s hands. “I shouldn’t have—this isn’t how—” he closes his eyes, trying to stop the barrage of thoughts from flying out of his mouth. “I’m sorry I left you to deal with Julia by yourself. I know that probably sucked. Like, a lot.”

Eliot brings their clasped hands up to his mouth and brushes his lips over Quentin’s knuckles. Quentin’s heart thuds against his chest as he’s flooded with wonderment that after Quentin stood him up, passed out high on magical LSD, and left him to deal with a huge mess with his best friend; Eliot is _here_ , listening, supporting him with no questions asked.

“I would rather go to another Creed concert than relive last night,” Eliot says with a sigh. “Julia is pretty upset. I think Kady was ready to blast me out of the apartment for a second.” He scoots an inch closer to Quentin, so he’s nearly in Quentin’s lap, one of his legs sliding in between Quentin’s knees. “They’re— _we’re_ really worried about you. But I know yesterday... “ Eliot swallows, his eyes darting away and back to Quentin. “Q, I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly. “About your mom.”

Quentin’s eyes flutter shut at the mention of his mom, and then he forces them back open. Eliot is gazing at him with such sympathy, affection… and Quentin has to close his eyes again, because the way that Eliot is looking at him isn’t something he deserves to see. Not after the position he left him in last night.

“I know you weren’t close,” Eliot continues. “I don't talk to my family, but I don’t know how I would feel if anything happened to any of them. I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but I want to be here for you. If you’ll let me.” He reaches up to tuck Quentin’s hair behind his ear, and rests his palm on Quentin’s cheek. Quentin leans into the touch, nearly choking on the wave of affection that swells up in his chest.

“Eliot,” Quentin croaks, tears threatening again. “I want that so much. But I… I feel so fucking _broken_. I just keep fucking up—”

“Hey,” Eliot says, leaning in, pulling Quentin’s forehead against his own. “You can’t keep doing this alone.” His breath ghosts against Quentin’s lips, his palm warm on Quentin’s wet cheek, and all Quentin wants is to surrender to the safety wrapping around him, like a velvet blanket, soft and fuzzy and decadent against his skin. “Let me be here for you. Julia. We all… care for you,” Eliot says, his eyes closing briefly as he swallows hard. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “Quentin, when I told you about… my past, about Mike, it was so fucking scary. And you were so… accepting. Like it didn’t matter.” His voice cracks slightly, and Quentin slips a hand on the back of Eliot’s neck, gripping slightly. 

“Eliot,” Quentin interrupts, pulling back a few inches, the need to stop the painful echo in Eliot’s voice nearly burning him up inside, “that—”

“Don’t tell me that was different, Q,” Eliot says, his voice tired. His hand pushes through Quentin’s hair again, drifts down to his neck, sliding down to the collarbone visible above the open buttons of his shirt. “You were strong when I needed you to be. Let me be strong for you.” 

At those words, something splits inside Quentin’s chest. The flimsy barrier Eliot has been circling, pushing on, poking and prodding for the past several months, breaks. It falls apart, collapses in on itself. Quentin’s heart beats behind the rubble, steady and strong, lit up from within in a way it never has before. It’s like a dam has burst; heavy, violent waves of love and affection are pouring out, crashing over everything.

Quentin _looks_ at Eliot, at his disheveled but somehow still gorgeous bedhead, his clothing, wrinkled and tangled from sleeping, and at his face, ethereal in the pale light. He’s gazing at Quentin with such raw devotion and caring that Quentin can’t catch his breath; he feels like he’s dying and being reborn in the hazel depths of Eliot’s eyes. 

“I—” Quentin starts, and then he snaps his mouth shut before the words _I love you_ can fall from his lips. He can’t—this isn’t—and he leans forward and kisses Eliot, to buy at least a few seconds to try to stop his mouth from spilling his deepest feelings all over both of them. Their lips touch and Quentin is lost, adrift in a storm of his own making. Eliot is the only port in sight, his north star shining brightly among the clouds.

He pulls back and takes a deep, stilted breath. Then he stares at the man he’s completely and utterly in love with and says, “Okay.”

He adjusts back against the pillows, his hand falling to clasp Eliot’s, so they’re sitting against the headboard, hands connected in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “It’s a lot,” Quentin starts. “It’s like 5am, are you sure—”

“Yes,” Eliot says firmly. “I don’t think I could go back to sleep now if I tried.”

Quentin nods and licks his lips, staring off at the far wall. He hasn’t told anyone about those few months… ever. The few times he tried to in therapy, he could never force the words out. Only Julia and Kady know almost everything, and only because they were there. He keeps waiting for that steel grip to clutch at his heart, to feel light-headed at the prospect of talking about the worst days of his life. But he slides his fingers over Eliot’s inner wrist, and all he feels is the steady, calming thump of Eliot’s pulse under his fingertips. Quentin’s heart beats in time with it, and a warmth spreads through his chest, like a soothing balm soaking into his scar tissue. It’s rejuvenating, knitting together the shredded pieces of his soul.

“I can count the number of people I’ve ever really loved in my life on one hand,” he starts, his eyes darting around the room. “And now over half of them are dead.” Eliot squeezes his hand, and Quentin looks down at his lap.

“I was never, like, a happy kid,” he says. “It’s just how my brain works. I spent some time in inpatient, had a few half- hearted attempts. Wrote a lot of notes.” Eliot inhales sharply, and Quentin keeps his eyes trained on their joined hands. “But Brakebills found me, and suddenly… I wasn’t this useless person anymore. I was a _magician_. I had _purpose_. And then I met Alice, and… it was like all of my dreams were coming true.” He glances at Eliot, and then at the wall across from the bed. “I should’ve known. It was too good to last.”

He clears his throat. “Eliot, when you told me about Logan and Mike... I knew exactly how you felt. But with Logan, you had no idea you even _had_ magic. And with Mike, he would have killed you. But me... I _know_ how dangerous magic is. I _knew_ that what we were doing was probably going to end badly. But I did it anyway. And in the end it killed Alice. _I_ killed her.” He looks back at the wall, and Eliot releases one of his hands and wraps it around the back of Quentin’s neck, drawing him close. He presses his lips to the side of Quentin’s forehead.

“What happened?” Eliot asks softly.

Quentin leans his shoulder into Eliot’s, gripping his hand tightly. He could stop here. He could curl in on himself, hide his soft underbelly, and tell Eliot he doesn’t want to have this conversation, that he never will. He could distract himself from all of this bullshit by licking his way into Eliot’s mouth and he _knows_ Eliot would let him. Quentin takes a deep breath. If anyone deserves to hear the truth, to know the true depths of the stain on his soul, it’s Eliot. It’s now or never. 

“Alice had a brother that went to Brakebills a few years before we enrolled. Charlie. There had been some kind of an accident—you know, in typical Brakebills fashion, and he’d disappeared. Like, without a trace. Most people come to Brakebills to learn magic, but Alice, she already knew more about magic than all of us combined. She came to Brakebills to learn what happened to her brother. She thought maybe he was still alive. And in our second year, she finally got some answers.”

_Six years ago_

_“Emily Greenstreet?”_

_Quentin stared at Alice, who was looking at him with the most hopeful eyes he’d ever seen. God, she was always beautiful, but when she turned those wide blue eyes on him and bit her lower lip like that, he was fucking gone._

_“Y-yeah,” she said. “Um, she was friends with Charlie. At least that’s what I heard. She took it hard when he died. I’ve never found anyone to talk to who—who knew him then. I got her work address. I—Can you come with me, Quentin? To talk to her?”_

_Quentin was nodding even before she finished her sentence; of course he’d go with Alice to talk to her. He’d go with Alice to the fucking dollar cinema to see a Transformers marathon if she asked him to. They’d only been dating a few months, but he felt like he’d loved her for years. He had, really. Ever since she’d burned a hole in the door to the Cottage as he sat there blathering on about incinerating ants with a magnifying glass._

_~~~_

_Quentin often thought he was the saddest person on the planet. Some mornings when he’d look in the mirror, he’d think there was no possible way anyone could come compare to the misery staring back at him. After he met Emily Greenstreet, he felt like he’d met his match._

_Emily hadn’t wanted to speak to them, nearly running away when Alice approached her as she left her job for the day. But after Alice had revealed herself as Charlie’s sister, had all but pleaded with Emily, she’d relented. They sat down at a small table at the coffee shop down the street. None of them bought anything._

_“Your brother saved my life,” she told Alice, smiling sadly. “Or he tried to, at least.”_

_She’d fallen for her professor, she’d told them. Quentin would later find out it was Mayakovsky, which just boggled his fucking mind, that a smelly, disgusting alcoholic like him could not only actually attract a woman, but enough so that she’d try to magically alter her appearance to try to please him._

_She’d botched the spell. Fucked up her face so bad she was going to jump in the Van Pelt Fountain. Charlie had found her, standing on the edge, ready to jump._

_“He—He mashed a... bunch of stuff together,” Emily said, staring at the tabletop. Quentin knew she was back at that fountain, under a dark sky, ready to jump and let the icy waters swallow her whole. “It was—it was totally untested. I really believed he might actually be able to undo what I did.” She suddenly jerked her head up, like she remembered where she was, sitting across from two strangers asking her to relive one of the worst moments of her life. She gave Alice a small smile. “He was a good magician. You know, he—he woulda done anything for me. It was a lot. It was—it was—It was too much.”_

_She described how the spell was too powerful for Charlie, how it had overtaken him. He’d burned up, screaming as a blue flame incinerated him from within. “Do you know what a niffin is?” she asked them._

_“No,” Quentin said, at the exact same time Alice said, “Yes.”_

_Emily nodded sadly. “It's when too much magic runs through you. Consumes you. Only the magic is left, but you're not you anymore. You're... lost.”_

_Quentin was watching Alice now, watching her struggle to keep her composure as she heard about the fate of her brother. Quentin could see it all crashing down around her, any hope she had that she might ever see her brother again._

_“Where did Charlie go?” she asked, her voice cracking._

_“I don't know,” Emily replied, her eyes shining with sorrow. And guilt. “He was just gone. I never saw him again.”_

“I’ve heard of niffins,” Eliot says, one hand still resting on the back of Quentin’s neck, his thumb swiping over Quentin’s scalp. “I remember talking about them in my first year. About how to tell if a spell is too much for a caster.”

“Yeah,” Quentin chuckled sadly. “I guess a few students turning into niffins warrants adding them to the first-year curriculum.” He sighs, leaning back against the pillows. “I thought that after she’d heard that, she’d move on. Really let go of Charlie, and look at the future, instead of living in the past. But she didn’t.”

_Five years ago_

_“Q!” Alice was breathless as she burst into his bedroom, and Quentin jerked awake._

_“Alice?” he said, turning on his lamp. He looked at his phone—“It’s three in the morning. What’s wrong?”_

_“Nothing,” she said, smiling. “I figured it out.” She threw her bag to the ground, and shoved the papers she was holding into her hands._

_Quentin looked at it, and his stomach turned to stone as he realized what he was staring at. “Alice,” he said hesitantly, “what is this?”_

_“It’s what we’re going to use to bring Charlie back.”_

_Quentin closed his eyes and he sat back heavily against his headboard. He glanced out the window, not able to look at Alice’s happy face for another second. He could see the nearly full moon through the attic window._

_“Alice,” he said softly. “I don’t… think this is something that can be done. Niffins… they aren’t even alive. They’re… something else. You know that, we talked to everyone that knows anything about niffins.”_

_They had. Anyone at Brakebills and beyond that had ever written anything about niffins, Alice had contacted them in the past year. And no one had ever brought anyone back. There was no one to bring back, was the general consensus._

_Her lips thinned as she stared at him, the light going out of her eyes. That had happened a lot in the past year. Ever since she’d found out what happened to Charlie, that haunted look would pass over her face, like she was staring at something only she could see. Quentin used to think he was the dreamer between the two of them, but lately he felt like he was the one keeping Alice tethered to Earth. “Look, I can't explain it, but I know that he's out there,” she told Quentin, grasping his hand. “He's somewhere. I can feel it.”_

_“Alice,” Quentin said, squeezing her hand. “We’ve looked at every book ever written about niffins. There is nothing that says you can reverse becoming one.”_

_Alice stuck out her chin at him, just like he’d seen her do to so many of her professors when they doubted her. It was one of the things he loved the most about her, how unwavering she was when she set her mind to something. “Nothing says that you can’t.” She pointed at the paper in Quentin’s hand, and he peered down at it. “I found this spell that can transmutate certain meta-quantum energies into matter… in theory. And I combined it with an advanced transformation ritual—”_

_“Alice,” Quentin interrupted, “this is Major Arcana—”_

_“And?” she’d said, her back so straight, her eyes blazing at Quentin. “Just because you can’t do it—”_

_“Nobody can do it, Alice,” he’d said, trying to smother the flame of irritation in his chest. Why couldn’t she get over this? Let it go? “You’re making it up as you go along. Look, I—You are an amazing magician—”_

_She yanked the papers out of his hand. “Don't fucking patronize me.”_

_“I'm not patronizing you,” Quentin said, trying to keep his voice down. “It’s three in the fucking morning, you come running in here like a lunatic, and I'm telling you that this is_ not _a good idea.”_

_She stood up, grabbing her bag from the ground. “What do you know?” she practically spit at him. And then she left, slamming the door behind her. He could hear her quick footsteps all the way down the stairs._

“It was a complicated spell with so much power; she couldn’t do it alone. We fought over it… for months. Julia got involved, she was on my side, and it… it nearly tore us apart.” Quentin swallows, and nearly jumps when Eliot pushes something into his hand. He looks down to find Eliot had handed him his half-full bottle of water. Quentin gives him a small smile and takes a large gulp. “After our second anniversary, in October of our fourth year, I… gave in. On the condition that we have a niffin box nearby if things went sideways.”

“A niffin box?” Eliot asks.

“Guess they didn’t cover that in class,” Quentin says.

“Well, it’s possible they did on a day I was needed elsewhere,” Eliot says. “I confess, I didn’t _always_ have perfect attendance.”

Quentin allows himself a real smile, and the way Eliot’s eyes lighten when he sees it makes Quentin swear he’ll never let another day go by without smiling at least once. “You only missed one day in my class.” 

“Well, Minor Mending is one of the most critical classes in the Brakebills curriculum; it’s ridiculous that it’s not required for all disciplines.” Eliot smiles back at Quentin, who finds himself lost in that little dimple on Eliot’s chin. Then Quentin clears his throat, looking away.

“A niffin box is a wooden box with no lid. It takes a month just to make one; you have to, like, do this Turkish enchantment with herbs and shit. It’s easy to use once you have it made. The niffin becomes fused with the wood. It’s kind of like a holding cell, I guess.”

“And then what?” Eliot asks. “What do you do with the box after that?” As the words leave Eliot’s mouth, Quentin feels tears threaten in his throat again, and he looks down at his lap.

“Um,” Quentin said. “There’s another spell. To destroy it completely.” He clears his throat. “So, Alice and I went to the fountain, where it all went down. To summon Charlie and then try to… restore him.”

_Five years ago_

_“Okay, so we’re here, and…” Quentin looked down at the paper in his hands. “Arrive at the place of transformation. Check.” Alice leaned across his shoulder, and he took a moment to press his nose into her hair, inhale her scent. The warm aroma of vanilla invaded his nostrils, and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Her smell reminded him of cookies and summertime._

_“Present yourself,” Alice said, standing up on the edge of the fountain. It was dark, close to midnight, the expansive dark sky above them, a full moon beaming down at them. Alice had insisted a full moon was the best night for success. It’s a weeknight, so there aren’t any students around, but that could change at any moment. Quentin hoped no one walked up on them while trying to summon the possibly demonic soul of Alice’s brother._

_“So now you have to call him?”_

_“Yeah,” Alice said, rolling her shoulders back as she shuffled the papers in her hand. “With something personal between us.” Quentin saw her fingers shaking, and he stood up, placing a hand on her shoulder._

_“It’ll be okay, Vix,” he said, pulling her close. “Just remember what they said… he’ll be different. Not like who you remember.” He closed his eyes and inhaled again as he pressed his lips to her hair. Alice leaned into him, just for a moment. Then she pulled away, straightening up._

_“I know,” she said confidently, without even the slightest waver in her voice. Quentin smiled as he knelt down to shuffle through his bag, slipping the niffin box into the back pocket of his jeans._

_Alice cleared her throat. “Charlie used to sing to me my favorite song when I was feeling bad, which was… kind of all the time.” She cleared her throat, looking out over the fountain. And she began to sing._

_“Won’t you come see about me—”_

“The song Becca sang to Jesse at the end of _Pitch Perfect_?” Eliot asks. At Quentin’s look, Eliot says, “Sorry, sorry, I know, _Breakfast Club_. Please continue.”

Quentin shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “You _are_ probably too young to remember John Hughes,” he teases.

“Um, hardly. Everyone should be aware of the heartwarming and horribly racist and misogynistic coming-of-age tales of the 1980’s, no matter their age.” 

“Anyway,” Quentin says, adrenaline coursing through his veins, feeling a little manic as he seesaws between amused and depressed, “The song worked.”

_“Alice,” Quentin said, grasping her elbow tightly. “Look.”_

_Next to the fountain, sitting on a bench, nearly shrouded by the fog suddenly coming off the surface of the water, was a man. Quentin couldn’t see his face, and there was something… off about him. He could feel it instantly, in his bones._

_“Charlie?” Alice said breathlessly. “Charlie…”_

_She quickly walked around the fountain, and Quentin reached for her, not wanting her to go anywhere near Charlie. His pulse had already been racing when they started, but now it doubled its pace. Something was wrong. Alice shook him off, his fingers just grazing her arm as she hurried away from him._

_Charlie stood up, a small smile gracing his lips as he looked at Alice. Blue lightning flashed over his face, across his cheekbones and his chin. His eyes were unnaturally blue, bright and flashing. Quentin had never seen anything like it._

_They were prepared for this. In all their research, everyone that had ever encountered a niffin (the whole four they were able to track down and talk to) had told them about the blue tinge to their skin. How they had the memories of whoever they’d taken over, but none of the warmth, none of their humanity. They were a corrupt shell of who they once were. It was one thing to read about it, though, and another thing entirely to see it._

_It made Charlie appear… monstrous. Alien, evil, almost. His face, body, everything_ looked _human. But it was tinged with just enough madness to make your blood turn to ice._

_Quentin could only hope Alice’s spell would work. He couldn’t imagine what it would do to her to finally see Charlie, even a pure magical, evil form of Charlie, and have to say goodbye all over again._

_“Charlie, is that you?” she asked, a hysterical edge to her voice. Charlie walked closer to her, and Quentin hung back several feet, watching._

_“Alice,” Charlie said, staring at his sister, a stunned look on his face._

_“Oh my God, Charlie, I can’t believe it’s you,” Alice said, smiling, her voice cracking. “I miss you so much. I don’t even know what to say.” Charlie reached for her, grasped Alice’s hands in his own._

_Quentin took a few steps closer, watching warily, the box in his hand. He didn’t trust this. At all._

_He watched Alice’s face flicker from happiness to confusion. “Charlie, what are you doing?” she asked. “That—That hurts!” She tried to pull her hands out of Charlie’s grip._

_“Alice!” Quentin said, running towards them. He stopped in his tracks when he heard Charlie’s laughter._

_It was… maniacal. Jittery. Insane. Not human._

_“The spell,” Quentin said. “We need to do the spell, Alice.”_

_Alice was still staring at Charlie, shaking her head, ripping her hands away. “You—You’re just confused, Charlie. It’s me!”_

_“Alice,” Quentin said sharply. Something in his tone must have snapped her out of it, and she turned to him, suddenly the resolute Alice he knew. He nodded at her, and together they started moving their hands in the motions they’d practiced, chanting the Turkish incantation._

_Instantly Quentin could feel the magic thrumming between them, swirling and joining, sending tingles through his hands as the filaments connected together. It was very similar to a mending spell, really, only they weren’t mending an object. They were trying to mend someone’s soul._

_But Charlie didn’t want his soul mended. Quentin suddenly stopped casting, stopped breathing as Charlie appeared between Quentin and Alice, holding up his fingers as his magic wrapped around Quentin’s throat and squeezed. Quentin was pulled up into the air, off his feet as Charlie stared at him. He wanted to kill him, Quentin knew. The niffin didn’t want to let Charlie go._

_“No!” Alice said, her hands moving faster. Even though he couldn’t breathe, Quentin could feel the magic in the air change—it grew sharp corners, firm edges, scraped across Quentin’s skin, making the hair on his arms and legs stand on end._

_Quentin was dumped to his feet as Charlie turned back to his sister. He spread his arms wide and laughed that same fucking insane laugh as Alice kept casting. Blue lightning was forming in her hands, and Quentin’s eyes widened._

_“Alice,” he gasped out, struggling to get to his knees. Fuck, his throat hurt. “You have to stop. He’s going to kill us.”_

_“No,” Alice said, her eyes never leaving Charlie. “I can do this.” Her hands kept moving, a tornado of blue lightning skittering up her arms, into her hair. She continued the chant, without Quentin this time._

_“Alice,” Quentin croaked out again, still on the ground. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the niffin box, struggling to his feet. He had the box in his hand, and he looked up, locking eyes with Charlie._

_“Nuh-uh,” Charlie said, wagging one finger back and forth at Quentin. And with a flick of his wrist, he sent Quentin flying through the air, landing hard on his back several feet away._

“It knocked the wind out of me,” Quentin tells Eliot. He feels fingers against his cheek, as Eliot wipes away the tears Quentin hadn’t even realized were streaming down his face. He sniffles, and pushes his hair behind his ear.

“It took me a few minutes to get up, and when I did… it was too late.”

_Quentin took a step forward on shaky legs, and then another. Standing in front of the fountain, right next to her brother, looking directly at him, was Alice. Eyes bluer than any sea on Earth. Her hair so blonde it was almost white._

_Blue lightning skittering all over her face. In her hair. Down her arms._

_Eyes flashing as she smiled at him wickedly._

“The spell, it… was too much for one person. She should’ve stopped when I stopped, but she didn’t. She thought she could do it herself, she always… always so goddamn stubborn. She niffened out. Just like Charlie had.” Quentin’s voice cracks as the scene plays in his head, just as clear and sharp now as it was when it happened right in front of him years ago. Another piece of his heart ripping off and floating down to bed sheets.

“I’m so sorry,” Eliot says, pulling Quentin into a hug, nearly into his lap. “I can’t—I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Yeah,” Quentin whispers. “But there’s more. A lot more.”

_Quentin stood up on shaky legs, staring at Alice. His girl. She stared back at him, and then turned to her brother, who took her hands in his._

_“Alice,” he hissed, a wide, demented smile on his face. “We’re gonna have so much fun,” he laughed, that same fucking laugh, and Quentin staggered backwards as Alice joined in. Insane, delirious… not Alice._ This isn’t Alice _, Quentin thought. It’s the same eyes that Quentin could spend hours drowning in, the same lips he wanted branded on his skin, the same hands he’d watched fly through tuts and spells… but it wasn’t her._

_“Alice,” Quentin said, walking forward. He stopped when she turned and looked at him. Regarded him. From head to toe, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a way he’d always thought was adorable. Now it looked vicious. Evil. “Alice, please,” Quentin pleaded. “I love you.”_

_“You’re talking like you mean something to me,” Alice said, taking another step towards him. She’s stopped by Charlie’s hand on her wrist._

_“Let’s go see Mom and Dad,” Charlie said. “I can’t wait to show you what you’re capable of.” Charlie’s eyes were the brightest Quentin had ever seen, biting his lower lip just like Alice does… did when she was excited about something. “So much power, Alice. You have no idea.”_

No _, Quentin thinks. He couldn’t let them leave. He looked to the ground, and—there it is. The niffin box. Alice and Charlie were focused on each other, and he took his chance. Grabbed the box and started chanting._

_“I bind you! Seni baglamak!” he said, holding the box out towards the niffins. They stared at him, and Alice’s mouth dropped open, her eyes widening like she’d forgotten he was even there. Repeating the incantation, Quentin thrust it closer to Charlie—and watched as he evaporated in front of Quentin’s eyes, the niffin box lighting up, searing and jumping out of Quentin’s hand as Charlie was sealed inside._

_Quentin stared at the box on the ground, and at Alice—whose mouth snapped shut. She flamed up, blue bursts licking up her arms, her neck, searing into her eyes. “He was weak,” she said tersely. “I’m not.”_

_“Quentin!”_

_Quentin and Alice both jerked their heads up, in the direction of the voice—and saw Julia and Kady running towards them. They stopped short once they were close enough to see, really look at Alice._

_Julia’s eyes were wide as she pulled Kady back behind her, staring at the box on the ground, at Alice, full of thunder and lightning, a chaotic inferno raging right in front of her._

_“What—What did you do?” Julia whispered._

_“I’m sorry,” Quentin said, tears starting to track down his face._

_“Don’t be,” Alice said, looking back at Quentin. “I’m not.”_

_“I—she was so sure it would work—” Quentin gasped. “This isn’t happening,” he said, sobs cracking his chest open. “This can’t be happening.”_

_“Oh, it is,” Alice said. “I wanted it to happen,” she said. “I did it on purpose. To get away from you. And your pathetic whining. God.” She took another step towards Quentin, smiling, beautiful in the ugliest way, “You have no idea how fucking good this feels.”_

_Suddenly she stumbled and fell to her knees. Quentin jerked his head up to see Kady poised in her battle stance, moving her arms to send another blast at Alice. Alice jerked her head in Kady’s direction, and just like Charlie did to Quentin, moved her arm, sending Kady flying backward, where she bounced against the steps of the building behind them._

_“Kady!” Julia screamed, running to her side. Alice stood up, ignoring Quentin, and walked towards them._

“I didn’t have another box,” Quentin says. “Which was so fucking… so stupid. We should have made more than one, how fucking arrogant—” He dropped Eliot’s hand, clenching the bedsheet, nearly tearing into it with his nails. 

“Q,” Eliot said. “You didn’t know. You didn’t know, baby,” he whispered, wrapping his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, massaging into the muscle there.

“So you can’t put two niffins in one box,” Quentin continued abruptly, like he was unable to stop the words from pouring out of him, “and Alice was going after Julia and Kady… and I realized I had something that could probably stop her.”

_“Alice, don’t!” Quentin yelled to her back. He could see magic swirling around her hands, a raucous flow growing larger by the second, and right then, he knew. He had no choice. Alice was gone. He’d held her hand and walked her right to her death. He couldn’t lose anyone else._

_“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as he dropped to one knee. He bent over and said, “Quentin says go free.”_

“I—I’d heard it doesn’t hurt, when you release your demon. At least not as much as it hurts going in. That you get at Brakebills South.” Quentin turns to Eliot. “You still have yours, right?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “I’ve thought about how I could have used it when Mike… but I didn’t think of it. At the time,” he finished, his voice lowering to a whisper.

“Well, it fucking hurts,” Quentin tells him, squeezing his palm. “Like something burning out of your back, ripping your spine out as it leaves. Or maybe I was just special, I don’t know.” Quentin looks down at the blanket covering his legs and swallows hard. “It did it. Killed her. Or we thought it did, anyway. Her body was there, on the ground, next to the fountain. The demon was gone.”

Eliot pulls Quentin towards him, into his lap this time. He wraps both arms around Quentin, one at his waist and the other buried in his hair, holding him against Eliot’s chest. Quentin turns into Eliot’s neck and gasps, shudders as tears fall anew. There’s still so much more to tell, but already he feels so much lighter. Every word he speaks to Eliot is like chipping away at the heavy stone he carries around daily, the one that makes him sink down into the soil every time he takes a step. Finally talking about it is, reliving it, makes him feel like it’s okay. To let go. To release himself from the burden he’s been under for the past five years. He wraps his arms around Eliot and holds on tight, still talking through the tears.

“Kady hurt her back when she landed on the steps, but they were able to repair the damage. If it weren’t for magical healing, she might never have walked again. And Julia… after all the dust settled, she was so mad. She went to the funeral with me, was by my side every step of the way. But she was so furious that we not only did the spell, but that we did it without her. It was months, I think, before she started to forgive me.”

“She and Kady just happened to be passing by?” Eliot asks.

“She’d gone looking for me that night, for some homework thing. When she couldn’t find me or Alice, and realized it was the full moon, she grabbed Kady and went straight to the fountain.”

“Q,” Eliot said, taking Quentin’s face in his hands, pulling away so he could look down into his face, “You _cannot_ blame yourself. Okay, maybe trying to restore the soul of a niffin was a little crazy, but… we do crazy shit for the people we love.” Eliot searches Quentin’s face, looking at him so intently Quentin feels like Eliot is trying to telepathically pull the guilt out of Quentin. “You know? And you loved Alice.”

Quentin sighs and wraps his fingers around Eliot’s wrists. “That’s not all of it.”

Eliot’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Quentin chuckles humorlessly, shifting out of Eliot’s lap and onto the bed next to him. “We thought that was it. We had a funeral. Buried Alice’s body. And I tried to move on.” Quentin pauses, sighing. “That’s a lie, I—I didn’t try to move on. I almost dropped out of Brakebills entirely, but Julia and Kady convinced me to stay. Eventually I got out of bed, started going back to classes, but I wasn’t… I wasn’t really there. I thought about her all the time, going over and over that night in my mind… how I could have changed it. And the spell she did on Charlie, looking at it… it could have worked, I think. That’s why, when it first started happening, I thought it was just me. Being crazy.”

“When what started happening?” Eliot asks, claiming Quentin’s hand again.

“Uh, dreams, to start. Dreams where she was the Niffin, saying… things like she did the night by the fountain.” Quentin closes his eyes, thinning his lips as memories float to the surface.

_How could you ever think I loved you? You were just something to pass the time._

Forcing himself to continue, he says, “And then I would see her… like when I was awake. On campus, in front of the Phosphoromancy Lab. In the Cottage. Sometimes it was like she’d see me, look right at me, and try to talk to me, but no sound was coming out. I did the spell to try to summon her, like when Alice sang the song for Charlie, thinking maybe she was still there, somehow, but she never came. I thought—I thought I was going crazy.” He swallows, looking at Eliot. “I wish that had been the case.”

_“Quentin.”_

_Quentin started, his head jerking up. His mouth dropped open, his heart bottomed out as Alice walked towards him, her steps slow and measured. She looked just as she had that night… the same dress, her skin and eyes eerily blue. She was a niffin… but she was Alice. And she was_ here _._

_“Visiting the scene of the crime?” she asked. She turned to look at the fountain in front of them, water flowing over the statue in the center._

_“A—Alice?” Quentin whispered, standing up off the bench he had been sitting on. Alice walked towards him, stopping when she was an arms length away. “Are you really there?”_

_“Yes, you idiot,” she snarled._

_“H—How?” he asked. He looked at the fountain, and then back at her. “Did—Did the summoning charm I cast just… take a while? That was weeks ago—”_

_“Shut up,” she commanded. “I was there the whole time.”_

_Quentin swallowed, his mind whirling. “I killed you,” he whispered. “My cacodemon—”_

_“Wasn’t strong enough to kill me,” she finished, her hands folded at her waist, so primly. Her ice blue eyes looked him up and down, her mouth turned down in disgust. Every few seconds, blue would streak across her cheek, her forehead, down her palms, around her neck. It was iridescent, beautiful. He wanted to vomit._

_“It tried,” she explained, in an almost bored tone, “but when it saw that it couldn't win— well, let's just say it stuffed me in a place most convenient. That stupid tattoo trap on your back.” She folded her arms in front of her chest. Quentin wanted to turn away, stop looking at the demon in his girlfriend's skin, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop staring at her._

_“Took me a minute to worm my way back out into the world. Though it was fun making you think you were going crazy. Again.” She leaned forward until she was just an inch away. “We’re gonna have fun, you and I.” Then she disappeared, leaving Quentin standing by himself in front of the fountain._

_He heard her voice again, but in his head this time, soft and delighted. “We’re stuck with each other.”_

“She was in the tattoo?” Eliot asks, his horror clear in his voice. “How—How can that even happen?”

“I dunno,” Quentin says, almost laughing. “Fucking demons living in a magical holding cell in our backs. That we got after spending a semester in the arctic, being tortured by a masochistic addict who’s supposedly the most brilliant magician we have to offer. Brakebills is just… so fucked up.”

“Q—”

“Just,” Quentin sighs, cutting him off. “Just let me get through this.” Eliot nods, gripping Quentin’s hand tightly.

“She wanted out,” Quentin says, focusing on the far wall. “She was stuck in my head, and she wanted me to release her, like I did the demon. Let her be free. But if I did, she… she would hurt people. And honestly... I didn’t want to let go of her. Seeing her again, hearing her voice… it was a piece of Alice. Even if it was the worst parts of her.”

_“Stop ignoring me! Stop ignoring me, you pussy!”_

_Quentin walked through the library, his eyes jerking from side to side as Alice, or the Niffin Alice in his head, walked backwards in front of him. Her voice echoed throughout the silent library… or echoed inside his brain, since she was only visible to him. He struggled to keep his expression neutral as he looked through the stacks for the book he needed._

_“Pay attention to me, you miserable sad sack! What’s wrong with you?”_

_“Stop it!” he snapped loudly, unable to contain himself. The students nearby startled, looking at him in surprise, and then slowly turned back to their books._

_He tried to not stare directly at Alice, pointing his face down at his book as she sauntered over to a table, sitting next to the student who’d just frowned at Quentin. “Are you ready to let me out of that hairy back of yours?” she asked, staring at him defiantly. “‘Cause I’m never gonna stop.”_

_Quentin swallowed, looking nervously at the students around him, most of whom were giving him a wide berth._

_“And sooner or later, one of these dummies is gonna call the brain police, and you’ve got priors.” She smirked at him, leaning on the table with one hand._

_Quentin spun on his heel and walked to a more deserted part of the library, muttering under his breath. “This is not Alice. This is not Alice. This is not Alice.”_

_Then she was back in front of him, keeping pace, just a foot away. “Just keep telling yourself that.”_

_Quentin huffed out a harsh breath, moving away from her. He looked around; no one else was near him. Only a week with her in his head, constantly poking and sniping at him. He only got respite when he slept, and even then, he dreamed. He’d hardly gotten more than a few hours each night._

_“You have got to stop,” he hissed at her, spinning to face her. He was close enough she should be able to feel his breath on her beautiful face. If her face actually existed._

_She crossed her arms and glared at him, huffing a (nonexistent) breath out between her lips. “Fine. Let me out of this trap, and I'm gone.”_

_“No,” he said. “Alice—” he shook his head, “Evil Thing Inside of Me That Used to Be Alice, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to—to say the words out loud that will let you go. Because if I do that, I have to box you. Destroy you.” He fixed her with his most stubborn glare, pressing his lips together._

_The smile that formed on her face made his blood boil. “You are kind of cute when you try to be mean.” She bit her bottom lip, fuck, looking so much like the Alice he knew. Except for all the blue flickering over her face. Then she sighed. “I'm kind of boxed up right now, in you.”_

_“It's not the same thing, and you know it.” He tried to fight down the tears burning in his throat._

_She took another step closer to him. “Like you’d even have the balls to box me. You’ll have to get Julia to do it for you. She’s always so ready and willing to come and clean up your messes.” She leaned into his face again. “Never willing to suck your dick, though.”_

_“Fuck you,” he said, unable to contain the rage and disgust swirling inside. He turned and stalked away, out of the library. He looked around, and she was nowhere in sight. He sighed in relief, only to stop short when she reappeared right in front of him, on the sidewalk by the woods that border the campus._

_“You destroy Charlie’s box yet?” she asked._

_Quentin tried not to let his face move, react. Charlie’s box was sitting in Quentin’s desk drawer, where it would stay until he could destroy it. Quentin had no idea where to put the scorched coffin that contained your deceased girlfriend's brother’s demonic soul. If niffins even had a soul. “You put it in a shoebox in your closet? Or maybe in your hope chest? If you actually find the balls to box me, you can put my box with his instead of destroying it, you know. Maybe you can start a collection.”_

_“Shut. Up.” He kept walking, moving closer to the trees, away from students streaming across campus. He came to a stop behind a few trees, turning to face her._

_“You can’t save me. Why do you even think I want that?” she asked._

_“I think if you were really you right now, that's all you would want.” He couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice as he said it._

_She never dropped that superior smirk. “You know nothing about me. Not the_ real _me. The me that I could have been, if you weren’t holding me back all these years.” She got in his face again, and Quentin can’t hide the shudder that runs down his spine. The first time she did this, he backed away. It made her smile bigger. Now he just stands his ground, lets her get as close as she wants. She doesn’t smell like Alice did. No vanilla, no sweet scent that was uniquely hers. It helps him remember. This isn’t Alice._

 _“We did all the research, Q. You can’t fix what_ you _broke. When you let Alice cast that spell, well… you signed her death notice. And you’re never gonna get your girl back. Just gotta let her go. Better do it soon, because the longer I’m around, the sooner that body of yours will give out.”_

_Quentin’s eyes widened, fear and adrenaline surging through his veins. This was the first she’d mentioned of anything like that. He thought… he didn’t know what he thought. That she’d be in his head forever? She’d eventually disintegrate out of boredom?_

_Alice tilted her head at his reaction. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that. Because that’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? To not be alive anymore. End your useless existence.” She chuckled, circling around him. “Sure would’ve been better for me if you’d done it years ago. After all, look where I ended up with you around.” She was behind him now, whispering into his ear._

_“You kind of owe me. You got me killed, after all. Let me cast that spell. If you hadn’t been there to help me, I never would have tried. Never would have become a niffin. Never would have been attacked by_ your _demon when you turned it loose.”_

_Tears streamed down Quentin’s cheeks. She was right, he knew. It was all his fault._

_“I just want to be free, Quentin,” she whispered. Just her voice, behind him, he could almost believe it was Alice. His Alice. “And I can kill you right after. If you want.”_

Eliot pulls away from him, moving off the bed and standing next to it. “Can we—just—take a break? For a minute?” he asks, taking a few steps towards the door, and then back towards Quentin.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, blinking up at him, alarm rising in his chest. Of course it’s too much. It’s too much for Quentin, and he’s lived with it for years. How did he expect Eliot to react, dumping all his shit on him in one night?

Eliot sits down heavily on the side of the bed, his palms pressed against his eyes. Quentin slides up behind him, wraps his arms around Eliot’s torso, rests his cheek against his upper back.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and Eliot quickly turns in his arms.

“No,” Eliot says, framing Quentin’s face in his hands. “Don’t apologize. Quentin, I just—” his face falls as he stares into Quentin’s eyes. “Did you ever talk to anyone? Have you been holding onto this for all these years?”

Quentin shrugs, looking away, grabbing at the edge of the blanket with one hand, running the satin binding over his fingers. “I, uh, tried therapy a few times. But I could never really get the words out. Julia and Kady know, obviously, but they were there. We’ve talked about it a few times. But you’re the first person I’ve ever really—told. Everything.”

He’s looking at the blue fabric of the blanket, twisting at a loose thread between his thumb and forefinger. Eliot’s lips brush his scalp, and he exhales slowly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Quentin sighs, still touching the blanket. “So, um, that’s when I really started drinking. And using. Sometimes I could make Alice disappear if I was drunk or high enough. And I, uh, one night I drank and took enough to land me in the clinic.”

“Jesus, Q,” Eliot says, both of his hands on Quentin’s arms, shoving up his shirtsleeve like he has to keep touching Quentin to remind himself he’s really here.

“I woke up the next morning and Julia was there. Asleep in the chair next to the bed. Alice wasn’t there; whatever meds they had given me blocked her out for a while. It was like I was me again, really me. And she woke up and once she realized I was awake, just started crying. Like _really_ sobbing, coughing and snot everywhere.” Quentin can’t stop the tears from forming in his eyes as he recalls Julia’s face, so red and tear-stained, crying and yelling at him. “God, she was so mad at me for not telling her. Again. And after that I asked her… to help me. Get Alice out of my head. And lay her to rest. For good.”

_“Okay, Q, we’re ready.” Julia walked over to Quentin, who stood out in the middle of the dirt field. The box was in her hand. Kady was by her side. The car was several feet behind them, a collection of crystal and herbs spread on a blanket across the hood._

_Quentin nodded, pacing back and forth in a small circle, dust kicking up from his shoes. It was late, light from distant streetlights and the car headlights streaming across the area. He turned to Julia, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. “What if I’m not?” he asked, his voice small._

_Julia pulled him into a tight hug, squeezing him way harder than anyone her size should be capable of. A sob escaped Quentin’s lips, and Julia held back her own._

_“I’m so sorry, Q,” she said, pulling back, cupping his cheek. “I miss her so goddamn much.” Tears started to fall down her face, and Quentin squeezed his eyes shut against his own. “No one should have to go through this. You release her, and Kady and I will do the rest.”_

_Quentin nodded. “Thank you,” he told her. She nodded and walked back to Kady, who grabbed Julia’s hand. Quentin looked to Kady, who nodded at him, a pained look on her face._

_Quentin took a few steps away, his back to Julia and Kady. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Quentin says go free.”_

_It didn’t hurt as much, when she left his body. Not like the demon, where it was as if hot tar had been poured on his back and then ripped out, taking his skin along with it. This was painful, but in an entirely different way. It was like a part of his soul was being seared off, sliced directly off his heart and siphoned out through his spine. He could smell acid in the air, and, he thought, just a whiff of vanilla. He turned, and there she was, smiling at him, blue crystals dancing across her cheeks. She lifted one eyebrow at him, and then he heard Julia._

_“I bind you! Seni baglamak!” Alice whipped around, and then stumbled backwards when Kady hit her with a blast of magic. Julia continued casting, and then… In a whiff of blue smoke, the only woman Quentin had loved in his life, that had loved him back, was gone._

_Quentin stared at the box, his mind whirling. Already his body felt lighter, like the blood was flowing easier through his veins, the constant headache he’d had for the past month disappearing. The skin that had always buzzed with the magic of his tattoo now felt dull, lifeless, abandoned._

_But his soul… an iron weight had been strapped to it, pulling him so far down he saw nothing but blackness wherever he looked. And his heart… a hole had been burned into it, and he knew that for the rest of his life, no matter how much love or care he poured in it, it would just flow right back out, never filling, always leaving him empty. He was broken. And he had no one to blame but himself._

_“We can wait to—” Kady started to say._

_“No,” Quentin interrupted. “Let’s get it done.”_

_Kady looked to Julia, who nodded. Kady walked back to the car and returned with a bag of stones and herbs._

_“Let me do it,” Quentin said, taking the bag from Kady. She raised her eyebrows, but let him go. He carefully arranged the stones in a circle, and placed Alice and Charlie’s boxes in the middle. Julia handed him the herb mixture, which he sprinkled over the boxes. He stood over them, his heart pounding in his chest._

_After a minute, he said the incantation. Blue lightning skirted out from the circle of stones, and a blue flame erupted from the middle. A few seconds later, all that was left of the niffin boxes was ash._

_A strangled gasp left Quentin’s lips, and he dropped to his knees. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t fucking exist. “No. No No No. I—I didn’t—I can fix it. I can fix it.” He dug his fingers into the ash, feeling small shards of wood among the dirt. “There’s enough to—” he coughs, chokes, hot tears on his cheeks. His hands started moving in a tut, almost automatically. He can mend this. He can bring her back—He should have—didn’t even fucking try._

_Small hands grab his shoulders, gently pull him back._

_“Quentin. Q, baby, no.” Julia is crying too, pulling him away. He lets her, falls back against her, half laying on the ground. The pain in his chest is blistering, and roar in his ear deafening. Another set of arms wrap around them both, and Kady’s hair softly brushes against his cheek, her tears mixing with his own._

_“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”_

“We went back to Brakebills. Tried to pretend everything was normal. Somehow I graduated. I don’t remember ever going to class that year, but I have a diploma. And when Fogg offered me the Minor Mending spot... I couldn’t really think of a reason to say no.” Quentin looks up at Eliot, who has been motionless, still sitting on the side of the bed, their hands clasped together. “When they told me about Mom, it, uh. Felt like I was back in that dirt lot, standing over her ashes, you know?” He clears his throat, his gaze darting around the room. “She was really gone, no more hallucinations or talking to me in my head. The dreams, though… they stuck around. Until the past few weeks, at least,” he adds in a whisper.

Eliot inhales a deep breath and slides an inch closer to Quentin. His hands come up to cradle his cheeks. “Q,” he whispers, “Tell me you don’t believe what happened to Alice is your fault.”

At Quentin’s silence, Eliot drops his head to Quentin’s shoulder, his hands moving down Quentin’s chest, to wrap around his waist. “Baby,” he says into Quentin’s neck, “it wasn’t.” He pulls away, just far enough to look into Quentin’s eyes. “Just like with Mike… once she was a niffin, you didn’t have a choice. She would have hurt people.”

Quentin stiffens, pulling away. “She never should have had the chance to become a niffin,” he says, pulling out of Eliot’s grip completely. “I never should have agreed to do the spell.” He slides off the bed, standing, running his hands through his hair.

“Quentin—”

“I was the one who did so much of the research. I… fucking egged her on. Made her think there was hope. I should have—”

“You could have _died_ ,” Eliot says, his voice catching, standing up beside the bed.

“I fucking _should_ have died, Eliot!” Quentin nearly shouts. “I should have _saved her_ or _died trying_.” His face crumples and he looks to the ceiling, turning away from Eliot. “She shouldn’t have been the one to die. I should have kept looking—found a way to free her, or bring her back—”

Eliot pulls him against his chest, and Quentin lets him, his arms automatically wrapping around Eliot’s waist. God, just breathing Eliot in is enough to mute the yelling in Quentin’s mind, calm the raging waters. Eliot tucks him under his chin, one hand gently running over Quentin’s hair. “Q,” Eliot says, “One thing you keep telling me about Alice is how stubborn she is. Do you think that, if you hadn’t agreed to do the spell, she would have stopped? You told me you argued over it for months. You don’t think she would have just kept going and not told you? Or tried it by herself?”

Quentin is quiet in Eliot’s arms. He considers Eliot’s words, thinking of how single-minded Alice was when she wanted something. And there was nothing she wanted more than her brother.

“I dunno,” Quentin whispers, turning his face into Eliot’s chest, running his hands up and down his back. “I just really fucking miss her.”

“I know,” Eliot says. Quentin can feel Eliot’s lips brush against his scalp, and he pulls on the back of Eliot’s shirt until he can slip his hands underneath it, grip Eliot’s warm skin underneath his fingertips.

They stand like that for a few minutes, Eliot murmuring softly as Quentin’s tears dry. Quentin presses his face into Eliot’s chest, drops a soft kiss on his collarbone. He’s exhausted again, having used up all his energy talking for the past hour. But even so, he somehow feels nearly weightless in Eliot’s arms. There’s nothing on his back, in his pockets, or in his heart weighing him down. He only feels a new buoyancy in his limbs, his chest expanding like he’s breathing fresh air for the first time in years. As he pulls away and looks up into Eliot’s eyes, he thinks of that first night in the Observatory. Or next to the fountain, when he felt like he was barreling down a dark highway, destined to crash at any moment. He’d crashed alright, head first into Eliot. And he couldn’t be more thankful that he somehow managed to find the only person on Earth that could pull him off that dark path and into the light.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For being here. For listening. I, uh… I know it’s a lot to hear in like, an hour.” He pauses, and continues, “I guess I was worried you’d look at me differently. Knowing all that.”

“Thank you for trusting me. I’ll always listen to you.” Eliot pulls away, and the corners of his mouth quirk up slightly. “And Quentin, you have to know. There’s nothing you could tell me about your past that would change how I feel about you.”

A slight gasp leaves Quentin’s lips as he remembers his words to Eliot in the shower at the cabin. The overwhelming urge to hold him, take care of him, wash away all of the pain. _I loved him then_ , he thinks. The thought pushes him forward, onto his toes as he presses his lips against Eliot’s.

It’s meant to be a soft, chaste kiss, to show how thankful he is that he didn’t die like he’d wanted to, how grateful he is to have found his way into Eliot’s arms. And it is, for about five seconds. Until Quentin pulls Eliot against him and threads one hand through Eliot’s hair, holding him firmly in place. Until Eliot deepens the kiss, a soft whimper falling from his lips as Quentin pulls away to readjust, and then reclaims his lips with a new intensity.

The exhaustion Quentin felt just moments ago is replaced with adrenaline, a carnal urge flowing through his limbs to _show_ Eliot how he feels. Even if he’s not quite ready to say it yet.

Quentin backs Eliot towards the bed, and as Eliot’s knees hit the side and he sits down on the mattress, he says, “Q—I don’t know if we—” He’s cut off by Quentin’s mouth on his, and he lets Quentin push him down to the mattress, crawl on top of him.

“Please,” Quentin says. “I need to feel you. Be with you.” Quentin’s cock is already half-hard, and as he slides his palm up and up Eliot’s thigh, he can feel that Eliot’s not far behind.

“Yeah,” Eliot sighs, pulling Quentin down on top of him, sliding his hands down to palm Quentin’s ass. “Okay.” He moves up the mattress, pulling Quentin along with him until they’re fully on the bed, making out and rutting against each other.

Quentin strokes his tongue into Eliot’s mouth, his hands moving to Eliot’s fly. He’s not wearing a belt; he must have taken it off before going to sleep the night before. He kisses his way down Eliot’s jaw, to his neck as Quentin shoves Eliot’s pants down his thighs and wraps his fingers around Eliot’s cock, enjoying the sharp gasp that falls from Eliot’s lips. Quentin strokes his dick once, twice, when Eliot suddenly hooks a leg around Quentin’s and rolls them over so he’s on top.

“Fuck,” Quentin says, his voice hitching as Eliot sucks on his earlobe. Quentin is reaching again for Eliot’s cock when Eliot grabs both of his wrists and shoves them above Quentin’s head. 

He holds them together with one hand ( _God his hands are so big_ ) as Quentin watches with wide eyes. “Hands up here, baby,” Eliot tells him, breathless, his cock heavy against Quentin’s thigh.“Okay?” he whispers, stroking Quentin’s cheek with his other hand.

Quentin nods wordlessly, his dick straining against his zipper. He was turned on before, but at Eliot’s words, his mind went white, a fervent silence settling over his mind. He sees nothing but Eliot, feels only his fingers gripping Quentin’s wrists so tightly it’s almost painful, and can only taste his sharp flavor on his tongue. It’s a radiant kind of peace, burning him from the inside, little bursts of lightning traveling throughout his body. 

Eliot smiles down at him and kisses him again, softly, and releases his wrists. Eliot gently places two of his fingers against Quentin’s lips, and Quentin’s tongue immediately flickers out, dragging the tip just across them. Then Quentin parts his lips, and Eliot slides his fingers into Quentin’s mouth.

Quentin’s eyes flutter shut as he wraps his tongue around Eliot’s fingers, a soft moan in his throat as he sucks hard. “Yeah, baby,” Eliot whispers. “Show me what that pretty little mouth wants to do to my cock.”

Quentin’s hips buck up, and Eliot steadies himself on a knee, his other hand reaching down to shove Quentin’s shirt up his stomach and unfasten Quentin’s pants. It’s a sweet relief, as Eliot awkwardly shoves Quentin’s clothes down his thighs, his dick almost comically popping out of his boxer briefs. Eliot pulls his fingers from Quentin’s mouth, and Quentin groans in protest as Eliot lays on top of him.

“I know I should just hold you right now,” Eliot says, tutting lube into his hand, “but I can’t stop myself when you want me like this.” He reaches down and strokes first his own cock, and then Quentin’s, until they’re both slick. “How do you do this to me,” he murmurs, settling so his cock slides right against Quentin’s, hot and hard. He presses kisses into Quentin’s neck, tongue licking over where his pulse is beating rapidly. “Make it feel so fucking good every time.”

“You’re the one,” Quentin gasps. “Doing it,” he continues, his hips pushing up into Eliot’s, the slick glide of skin on skin making him gasp, his eyes squeeze shut as he presses his hands, still locked together at the wrists, into the pillow above him. “God, I love this,” he says. “Being with you.”

“Yeah?” Eliot asks, a hand tracing a path up Quentin’s arms, back to his wrists, wrapping his fingers tight around them. “I do, too.” 

Quentin reaches up, kissing Eliot hard as he wraps his leg around Eliot’s calf, using the leverage to press up with his hips, to grind his dick against Eliot’s. A liquid heat sears through Quentin’s body, from his cock to his toes, all the way up to the wrists held fast by Eliot’s fingers.

“You like that?” Eliot asks as he leans on his forearm, his lower body moving and thrusting against Quentin, his hot breath blowing across Quentin’s lips, flowing into his mouth. “Can you feel me?”

“Yes,” Quentin hisses, capturing Eliot’s lips with his own, tugging Eliot’s bottom lip between his teeth. Needing to feel Eliot’s hair between his fingers, to rake his nails down Eliot’s back, he pulls his wrists free from Eliot’s grip. He buries one in Eliot’s hair, the other reaching under Eliot’s shirt, gripping the warm skin under his shirt.

They set a frantic pace, legs awkwardly tangling together as they grind and move against each other. They still have all of their clothes on, the only skin contact are their cocks sliding against each other, their hands groping under shirts or in their hair, and their lips that can’t seem to break away. Eliot’s dick moves against Quentin’s so precisely, dragging across the head, down to his balls, a pulsing sensation flickering through his thighs, curling his toes. Quentin’s body is pulled taut, sweat and hot slick between them, smearing all over their clothes, and Quentin could not give any less of a fuck. All he wants is Eliot’s weight on top of his own, Eliot’s voice rough against his ear, his teeth dragging across Quentin’s throat as he strokes his dick just the right way. Quentin’s body quivers as he comes, spurting between them. His fingers grip Eliot’s skin, one on his lower back, the other on the back of his neck, nails digging in as waves of bliss cascade through his body. It’s messy and silky smooth like satin, pleasure caressing his skin as it burns him from the inside. He’s so caught up he’s barely aware of Eliot’s soft laugh as he finishes right behind Quentin, adding to the wet heat between them.

Eliot’s full weight falls on top of Quentin, and Quentin pulls him in tight, pressing their lips together, both his hands moving up to grip Eliot’s damp hair. Eliot chuckles, bumping their noses together, moving down slightly to rest his forehead on Quentin’s shoulder. The slide of Quentin’s softening dick against Eliot’s belly makes a squelching sound, which sends them both into giggles.

“Thank god for cleaning spells,” Quentin says as Eliot shifts to his side, looking down at the mess between them. They’re full of their own come and lube, wet spots on their shirts and pants and the bed sheets beneath them. Quentin let’s his head fall back to the bed, smiling as Eliot leans over and kisses his neck. He pulls up and looks down at Quentin, grinning at him.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he says. Quentin reaches up and trails his hand down the side of Eliot’s face, staring into his hazel eyes, shining with affection. The urge to let the words _I love you_ fly out of his mouth is almost unbearable. His heart speeds up at the thought, and it must be reflected in his face because Eliot’s expression grows serious.

“ _Are_ you feeling better?” he asks, concerned.

Quentin nods, still staring at Eliot, who just put everything on hold to come stay with Quentin while he was passed out. Who heard the worst of Quentin, and is still looking at him like _that_ , like he’s something to be treasured. Not falling in love with Eliot was never an option, he realizes.

“Eliot, I—” He stops short by a shuffling outside, and he jerks his head in the direction of the door.

“Shit,” he says, and he and Eliot fly into movement, pulling up their pants, pulling down their shirts, and trying to magic away all of the messy evidence of the past twenty minutes. They’re straightening the bedsheets when there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Q?” Julia asks. “Can I come in?”

Quentin swallows, mentally sending a thank you to Julia for saving him from himself. Telling Eliot he loves him is probably a bad idea in any case, but saying it for the first time when their dicks are hanging out of their pants and covered in their own come is probably not a picture he wants for his mental memory book.

Or maybe it is, but it’s hardly a story he can tell without leaving a lot on the cutting room floor.

Eliot quickly lays down on the bed, throwing the blanket over himself to give some appearance of sleeping or just waking up, something that doesn’t say _hey maybe you wanna wash these sheets like ASAP_ , and Quentin crosses to the door and pulls it open.

Julia, in bare feet and a fuzzy maroon robe, steps inside and immediately wraps him in a hug, briefly meeting Eliot’s eyes over Quentin’s shoulder. Eliot makes a show of stretching and sitting up. 

“I know it’s early, but I heard you guys talking. How are you feeling?” Her eyes are full of concern as she searches over his body, like she’s looking for signs of bleeding. _Sorry Jules, all the injuries are internal._

“I—I’m okay,” Quentin says sheepishly, looking over at Eliot, who’s standing up and making his way over to them.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Not feeling weird from the pills? Like hungover or you need to vomit or do a bunch of crazy evil magic and take over the world?”

Quentin chuckles, looking at his feet. “Uh, no. No Dark Willow urges. I feel a lot better, actually.” He sends a small smile to Eliot, who returns it.

“Great,” Julia says. Then a sharp pain hits Quentin in the arm as Julia punches him right in his shoulder.

“Ow!” he says, rubbing it, but then she socks him again in his other arm. Eliot’s eyes widen and he takes a step back, earning a look of betrayal from Quentin. _Help me out, here?_

“What the _fuck_ , Q?” Julia’s eyes are still full of concern, but there’s a hard anger Quentin hadn’t seen before. “I know yesterday was horrible, but you can’t just take fucking random magical drugs in the middle of the city! What if Danny wasn’t working last night? What if you left the bar before I got there? Did you even _know_ what you were taking? And don’t even get me _started_ on this whole _situation_ over _here_.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of Eliot, who frowns and looks down at his wrinkled shirt, straightening the collar.

“Eliot’s not a—situation,” Quentin sighs. “And I know—I, Jules, I’m sorry.” Quentin grabs her hands before she can get another hit in, squeezing them between his palms. He’s seen Julia angry before, experienced it firsthand too many times to count, but he’s never seen her like this. Full of rage and near desperation, and she’s certainly never punched him before. She hits harder than you’d think from looking at her small frame. His heart sinks as she meets his eyes, and he sees hers are shiny with tears. “I’m so sorry.” He pulls her into a tight hug, and she sniffles into his shoulder.

“I’m, uh, gonna go to the bathroom.” Eliot shoots Quentin a sympathetic smile as he slips out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Quentin and Julia sit gingerly on the side of the bed, Quentin giving one last look for any evidence of how he and Eliot spent the last half hour, and is satisfied that no semen was left behind. He turns to Julia, who’s pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Q, I’m so sorry about Joann,” Julia says, and something pokes hard at Quentin’s heart at the mention of his mother. He’d nearly forgotten… which was something that would happen, he knew. Too many mornings he’d woken up, thinking about how he’d call his dad later that day, only to remember that it wasn’t possible any more. Or when he’d finish a book and want to talk to Alice about it, only to have an icy hand grip his heart when the memory of watching her burn up blared in his mind. He nods, forcing himself to meet Julia’s eyes.

“Julia,” he starts, “I’m the one that’s sorry. For last night… I did a stupid thing.” He exhales hard, “I do a lot of stupid things. We—We all know that. I, uh—I’m sorry for not calling. For worrying you. And thank you. For coming to get me. Again.” He pauses. “And thank you for calling Eliot. It was—It’s really good. To have him here.”

Her lips purse at his name, and then her shoulders sag as she pins Quentin down with her stare. “Quentin,” she says. “What were you thinking? Getting involved with a student? You could get fired. He could—”

“I… wasn’t,” Quentin admits. “And that—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. “I’ve made a ton of mistakes in my life. Like, a shit load. But I’m sorry; I can’t say that being with Eliot is one of them. Yeah, I know there’s really good reasons why faculty can’t date students, but… I don’t—I’ll never regret it. And I’m so sorry you found out this way. I wanted to tell you, for so long, but—”

“You knew I’d tell you how stupid it was,” she finishes for him, pulling her hand out of his grasp. “How _dangerous_ it is.”

“Jules—”

“Look, Q, I love you. And I’m not gonna deny that ever since you started seeing _Eliot_ ,” she gives him a look as she says his name, and Quentin inwardly cringes, “you’ve been happier. More like the Quentin that found magic and un-ironically sang Alanis Morisette at karaoke. But…” she trails off, looking to the side. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. And I don’t see how this can end any other way.”

Quentin sighs, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Yeah. I know.” They sit in silence for a moment before Julia sighs.

“Come on. I smell coffee.” She gives him a small smile and slides off the bed, and he follows her into the front room.

The smell of coffee is strong, as is the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon that always reminds him of Alice. The thought is more fond than distressing right now, though, and Quentin’s affection only grows as he sees Eliot standing in front of the stove top, barefoot with a towel slung over his shoulder as Kady watches him, sipping her coffee.

“What’s going on here?” Julia asks, pouring herself a cup.

“Quentin’s boytoy can cook. Apparently,” she says, smiling behind her mug as Julia kisses her cheek.

“He’s an amazing cook,” Quentin says, coming to stand beside Eliot, who smiles down at him, gently nudging his shoulder in greeting. “You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly to Eliot, who’s cracking eggs into a small bowl and mixing them with various spices.

“I know,” Eliot says, glancing over at Julia and Kady, who are watching them and whispering to each other. “But what kind of a ‘boytoy’ would I be if I didn’t cook you breakfast in the morning.” He leans down and pecks Quentin on the lips, and Quentin’s face grows warm under Julia and Kady’s watchful eyes. “Go make toast,” Eliot says. “I know it’s your favorite.”

Quentin rolls his eyes but dutifully moves to the toaster. It’s not long before they’re all sitting at the table, eating omelettes and bacon and buttered toast and fruit. Quentin had thought it would be awkward, sitting down to breakfast with his best friends and his secret boyfriend the night after his mom died and he’d drugged himself into happy oblivion, but it’s not. It’s effortless, the way Eliot slides into their space, rounding them out into a comfortable circle, smiling and joking, even with the air of heaviness from the night before still remaining.

“Are you going to call Molly?” Julia asks, popping a strawberry into her mouth.

Quentin nods. “Yeah, after breakfast. See what the arrangements are, if she needs or… even wants any help.” He feels Eliot’s hand on his thigh, and Quentin reaches down, squeezes his palm. “They’re pushing back the start of my class a week, and I’m actually ready for the start of the semester, so I have time.” Quentin catches Eliot’s eyes, who squeezes Quentin’s thigh one more time before reaching for his napkin.

“I should go,” he says, and Quentin’s face immediately falls into a frown. “I have class later, and I’m sure you have things to talk about.” He turns to Julia and Kady. “ I’ve heard so much about the two of you. It was great to really—officially meet you.”

“Thank you for making breakfast,” Julia says, genuinely smiling for the first time that morning. “It was delicious.”

“Nice meeting you,” Kady says flippantly, leaning back in her chair, her empty plate sitting in front of her. She picks up her phone, and Eliot nods, standing up.

“I’ll walk you out,” Quentin says, following Eliot to the guest bedroom. In far too short a time, they’re standing in the hallway outside Julia’s apartment.

Eliot pulls Quentin into a tight hug, and he settles into it, nosing into the space of Eliot’s neck, arms snug around his waist. Quentin is hit with the realization that he doesn’t know when they’ll get to do this again, and from the way Eliot pulls him close, sighing and sliding one hand into Quentin’s hair, he’s not the only one thinking it. 

“You’ll text me?” Eliot asks quietly, kissing the top of Quentin’s head. “Let me know how you’re doing?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, pulling back slightly so he can tip his head back and look into Eliot’s concerned eyes. “Eliot, I—thank you. I’m sorry again, for last night.”

“I get it,” Eliot says, his hand on Quentin’s hip, sneaking under the seam of his shirt to splay his fingers out on Quentin’s bare skin. “I just hope the next time life strikes, you call me instead of your dealer.”

Quentin nods, pushing up for a kiss, Eliot’s upper lip fitting right between Quentin’s. They hang there for a moment, and Quentin suddenly thinks _remember this_. The sweet pressure of Eliot’s mouth against his own, his own hands wrapped around Eliot’s torso, every way the line of Eliot’s body moves with every breath he takes. It’s intoxicating, this feeling of completion that Quentin didn’t think he’d ever know in any lifetime.

They pull apart, staring at each other for a long moment, and Quentin again has to work to fortify the dam threatening to burst, the force of the love pushing against it, making cracks form as he tries to stop his mouth from spewing his feelings all over Eliot. _Not the right time_ , he thinks.

“Enjoy your class,” he says instead, and watches as the seriousness drains from Eliot’s face, a small smirk appearing. 

“Not likely,” Eliot replies. “It’s Specialized Transfiguration with Cortez, who is probably the only person that can make turning water into wine boring.”

“He’s spent more hours watching _Sex & the City_ in the common area than I have jerking off. Just tell him you’re a Charlotte and he’ll love you forever.”

Eliot chuckles, leaning down for one more kiss. It’s soft and sweet, and Quentin resists the urge to chase Eliot’s lips as he pulls away. “I would never,” he says, his hand rubbing up and down Quentin’s arm. “I’m a Samantha through and through.” His eyes flicker over to the apartment door. “I was hoping to win your friends over through their stomachs. I’m going to need something stronger than omelettes, I think.”

Quentin chuckles. “Kady likes you. More than she likes me right now. I don’t think she glared at you even once.”

“There was plenty of glaring last night,” Eliot says, pulling one of Quentin’s arms out from around Eliot and slotting their fingers together. He looks down at Quentin, then at their joined hands, the light in his eyes dimming slightly. “I know they don’t like me seeing you—”

Quentin is already shaking his head. The concept of Eliot feeling guilty, after all he’s done for Quentin in just the past twenty-four hours, makes his heart hurt. “Don’t—Don’t worry about that. They’re just upset with me for lying. And worried.”

“About how being with me could ruin your life.” Eliot nods, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “Valid.”

“Hey,” Quentin says, desperate to erase the downcast look on Eliot’s face, “You make my life better. They’ll see that. Once they get past the whole…” he flails the hand still holding Eliot’s, “career-ending part of it all.” 

“That minor thing,” Eliot says, but he’s smiling. He leans down, Quentin meeting him in another kiss. It’s ridiculous, how much he doesn’t want him to go. And how much he doesn’t want to face the two magicians waiting for him in the apartment. “I should go,” Eliot whispers, in between kisses.

“Mmhmm,” Quentin says, pushing up into him. Eliot chuckles, kissing Quentin and then pulling away, squeezing his hand one final time.

“If there’s anything I can do, Quentin. Please tell me.” Eliot’s expression is so earnest, all Quentin can do is nod. 

Eliot backs away from Quentin until their hands are forced to drop, and with a last wink, he disappears around the corner.

Quentin leans against the wall, exhaling as he stares down the empty corridor. He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around his torso to try to hold in any warmth left from Eliot. His thoughts turn to the early morning, with Eliot… completely unloading all his baggage. Like, literally he was surprised Eliot could still breathe under the pile of secrets, pain, and heartache Quentin had dumped on top of him. 

But not only did Eliot shove aside everything Quentin threw at him, he extended his hand out to Quentin. Offered to pull him up and out, without wanting a single thing in return. Just like Julia has all these years. 

He didn’t run. Didn’t even blink an eye. 

A new longing creeps up inside Quentin’s chest, nudging and swirling around his heart. It’s colorful, dynamic and delicate all at once, spiraling throughout his entire body. For the first time in a long time, an absolute certainty settles into Quentin’s bones. That everything is going to be alright.

As he turns to go back into the penthouse, he wonders if this is what hope feels like.

~~~

That was the last time Quentin saw Eliot for nearly a week. Quentin’s newfound hope didn’t last long when faced with Julia’s wide, disappointed eyes and Kady’s angry glare. Quentin apologized until he was blue in the face, promising he’d get his shit together. Julia had sighed while Kady sat back in her chair, her arms crossed.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Kady had said, before getting up and walking away. She’d turned back, in the doorway of her bedroom and told him, “Let me know when you're bringing Eliot back. I’ll make sure the fridge is stocked.”

He’d been on shaky ground with Julia for months. Years, even. Their friendship had spent the past five years balancing on a precarious ledge, and every time Julia had to drag Quentin home so drunk or high he didn’t even know his own name, a little piece of that ledge had disintegrated. After last night, Quentin knew he was standing on a precipice so small, all it would take was one more bad night for it to disappear completely. For Julia to just stop picking up the phone. For her to finally listen to Kady, and leave Quentin alone to fall, fall, fall into the night, until he hit rock bottom.

Still, she’d hugged Quentin goodbye that day and said she’d be at the funeral. And she’d texted every day since then. So she wasn’t done yet.

Just really fucking close.

Quentin did call Molly, his stepmom. He’d always liked her, she brought out a softer side of his mom, which led to some jealousy on Quentin’s part, that Molly could accomplish something in a few months that Quentin hadn’t in his entire life. Quentin felt supremely awkward, but Molly seemed to not give two shits about hearing from her stepson for the first time in years, which made sense, considering her life had been completely upended by losing her wife of the past decade. Quentin offered to help, and Molly had immediately taken him up on it, and suddenly he was sleeping in the guest room in his mom’s condo in Philadelphia and standing in the back of a tastefully decorated room as Molly and some lady he’d never met named Donna who was part of the book club his mom and Molly ran (he was _sure_ they only ever read biographies and _maybe_ political dramas) discussed caskets and flowers and Molly would turn around and ask, “What do you think, Quentin? Bronze or stainless steel?” and Quentin would try very hard to not flee from the room to the nearest bottle of vodka or bourbon or god, even a Smirnoff would be amazing right now. He’d left his flask at the condo that first day, which was not a mistake he made again. He wasn’t _drunk_ at his mother’s funeral, but he definitely wasn’t sober.

He wouldn’t have made it through those few days without Eliot and Julia. He texted them both nearly nonstop throughout the entire endeavor, and talked to Eliot nightly. Julia came in for the funeral. The conversation where Eliot offered to come would haunt Quentin for months.

_“I wish you were here.” Quentin laid back in the unfamiliar bed, the night before the funeral, in a white tee shirt and boxers, staring at the blank ceiling. Pictures of mountain landscapes decorated the walls of this room; his mom had taken them. She took up photography and pictures of her and Molly’s travels decorated the entire house. The ones in this room made Quentin think of the cabin in North Carolina._

_“I could be,” Eliot said quietly. “If you wanted me.”_

_Quentin’s eyes closed, and he swallowed hard. “I always want you,” he whispered. I need you, was what he wanted to say. I love you. But he didn’t. Instead, a thick silence stretched between them, and his throat tightened at Eliot’s sigh over the line._

_“I know I can’t be. Too many questions about where you landed such a handsome young man on your arm. Just another thing you’d have to worry about. But I would go. In a heartbeat.”_

The funeral was a blur. Julia had met him in the parking lot just before it started, as he was finishing a joint. He’d expected her to frown at him, and she did, but it was because he’d finished it before she could get a hit. Well, he had a solution for that—he produced another one from behind her ear, which made her roll her eyes, even if she did laugh as she snatched it away. Everything after that was fuzzy, full of tears and black clothing and awkward conversations with relatives he didn’t remember and family friends he’d never met. He desperately wanted to go back to the city with Julia right after the funeral (who had gotten Penny to travel her in and out—he had ignored Quentin’s texts and calls for the same service, but apparently for Julia, he jumped right to), but Molly still needed some help moving some of Joann’s things, and she was going to get all the labor out of Quentin that she could.

The entire week had left him exhausted, drained… but somehow renewed. Even when faced with the death of another loved one, Quentin was able to look ahead and not behind. _I can do this_. Eliot put everything on hold for him, and was the partner, the boyfriend that Quentin needed. He wants to do the same for Eliot. He can see a future now, a real one, after Eliot graduates. Maybe they can get a place together, close to Julia and Kady. With a dog. Or a cat, a fish, an iguana, whatever Eliot is into. He can wake up next to Eliot and make toast every morning, if he wants to. For the first time in a long time, when Quentin thinks of where he might be in a year, he can see something other than his plain room at Brakebills and the inside of a bar.

He just needs to take the first step. Tell Eliot how he really feels.

When Quentin finally gets back to his room, the Saturday after the first week of classes, he tosses his suitcase down on the floor, sits on his bed, and immediately texts Eliot— _Made it back. Tower tonight? Your room? You name when and where and I’ll be there_ —when a knock at the door pulls his attention from his phone.

He looks up to see Penny standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, glaring down at Quentin in his usual manner.

“Hey,” Quentin says, his phone vibrating in his hand. He glances back down at it as he says, “What’s up?”

_Eliot [4:05pm]_

_My room. As soon as it gets dark. In fact, I think I just learned a spell to block out the sun in a specific area, let me see if I can get that going._

Penny strides in, shutting the door firmly behind him. Quentin looks up, and a cold chill settles over his body as he really _looks_ at Penny. He has bags under his eyes, and his expression, while never pleasant, is downright angry. And he’s directing the full force of it at Quentin.

“Is everything okay?” Quentin asks, setting his phone on the desk.

Penny stares at him for a second, swallowing hard, before asking, “How was the funeral?”

“Fine. I mean, as fine as a funeral for your mom can be, I guess. No big drama, just… a funeral.” Quentin’s eyes dart around the room, going through his list of relatives, wondering if someone else had died that Penny is here to inform him about.

Penny stares down at him, and then takes a deep breath. “We need to talk. About your incredibly stupid decision to fuck Eliot Waugh.”

~~~

tbc in Chapter 12: Section 7.3 - Figure E - Flow Chart - How to Twist the Knife


	12. Section 7.3 - Figure E - Flow Chart - How to Twist the Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a great new year! We are definitely in the angstiest sections of the story, with the next 3 chapters being pretty hardcore. Happy endings tag still in effect, take care of yourself!

_Quentin_

“We need to talk. About your incredibly stupid decision to fuck Eliot Waugh.”

Quentin had imagined this moment many times; had many glorious, horrific theories as to how he’d get caught.

He’d always thought there would be some kind of a dramatic scene; maybe some students stumbling onto them in the observatory tower one night, or Quentin forgetting to lock his office door and a faculty member walks in to find Quentin unable to explain why Eliot’s cock is jammed down his throat. Well, because Quentin put it there of course. Or maybe Henry has suspected for months, and one night a magical SWAT team would swarm Eliot’s room at the Cottage, taking Quentin straight to Antarctica to rot the rest of his years away with Mayakovsky. He’d have his own sweater and beanie waiting for him.

Never had he imagined Penny quietly coming into his room, asking how he was, closing the door, and telling him they needed to talk as the moment it would all come crashing down.

“Wh-What?” Quentin asks, still sitting on his bed, hoping to any God that may be out there that he heard wrong.

Penny purses his lips and stares daggers at Quentin. “I know you’re fucking Eliot. A _student._ Not only a student, but _your_ student.”

Quentin’s eyes close and a shudder runs through his body. _This is it._ What he’s been waiting for. The other shoe to drop, the train going off the tracks, the moon falling from the sky—he’s fucked. _Fucked_.

His pulse is racing, heart thudding against his sternum, but the iron grip he always expected to feel wrap around his heart, the ice he thought would instantly form in his veins… it’s not there. There’s worry, and some fear, but what is resonating through his body the most, what is almost overpowering to the point of tears… is relief.

They got caught. Penny is going to take him to Henry, and he’ll be fired. He’ll have nowhere to live, no job, no real life skills besides how to power through a massive hangover… but he’ll be free. Of Brakebills and the suffocating force it’s had on him for the past five years.

He can only hope that Eliot still wants him when he’s just Quentin Coldwater, former teacher and current disaster, and not Professor Coldwater.

“Penny—” Quentin starts, but Penny keeps talking.

“A student who passed your class with a near _perfect_ average, which, _stunningly_ , he hasn’t done in any of his other classes.”

At this, Quentin’s eyes snap open, and he stands up, a spark of rage flaming in his belly. He may have not made the best choices lately (ever), but he’ll be damned if they think Eliot somehow fucked his way into an A.

“He _legitimately_ earned his grade. It’s _bullshit_ if anyone thinks otherwise.”

Penny’s lips form a thin line, and he shakes his head, a rueful chuckle escaping his lips. “You’re not even going to deny it, are you?”

 _No_ , Quentin thinks. Now that it’s here, he’s honestly so ready to get it over with.

Penny takes a step closer, until he’s just a foot away from Quentin. “Because you’re not just _fucking_ him. You’re in _love_ with him.”

Quentin flinches and takes a step back; his gut swirls as if Penny’s punched him. “I—what does that matter?” he asks, off-kilter. “How do you even—”

“I was in your fucking _head_ , Coldwater,” Penny says, stepping closer. “Believe me, if I had known I was walking into your little pleasure palace, I would have stayed the fuck out. But your best friend who has saved your ass _way_ too many times was terrified you were never going to wake the fuck up.” He stares at Quentin, who turns away from Penny, hands rising to push through his hair. “I wonder how she’d feel if she knew what you’ve been up to these past few months.”

“She knows,” Quentin says quietly. He turns back to Penny. “She found out when you did. She texted Eliot.”

Penny sinks down into Quentin’s desk chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know that you’re an _adult_ , right? You shouldn’t need anyone to keep you alive anymore.”

Quentin shakes his head, grabbing his jacket from where he’d tossed it on his bed when he walked in. His phone vibrates again on his nightstand, and he shoves it in his pocket. “Come on. Let’s go.” He steps over to the door.

Penny glares up at him. “Fucking go where? I need to _talk_ to you.”

“Let’s go to Henry. Get this shit over with, Penny.”

“Sit the fuck down, Coldwater.” Penny stands up, grabbing Quentin’s wrist and leading him back over to his bed. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Quentin slowly sits down on the edge of his bed, watching Penny with wide eyes as he sits back down in Quentin’s desk chair. “We’re not?” he asks. “But I thought—you—”

“Look,” Penny says, looking at Quentin like he’s a puppy that just pissed on the floor after he _just_ took him outside. “Do you know what would happen if we went to the dean?”

“I’ll get _fired_ ,” Quentin says, that tiny flame of anger in his belly flaring up. “Or sent to the fucking North Pole if Antarctica is full. Barred from campus, become the disappointment everyone always knew I would be. _I don’t care_ anymore, Penny. This has been slowly killing me, anyway. I’ll—I’ll figure something out.”

“Quentin, you—” Penny cuts himself off, sighing. Then, with all the patience you’d show a toddler, he continues. “Yes, you’d get fired. And Eliot would get expelled. And what happens when students get expelled, _Quentin_?”

Quentin stares at him dumbly. His thoughts turned back to first year, when Kady got into trouble for stealing a book from the library. She’d stolen it for Marina, a hedge witch that had gotten expelled from Brakebills the year before. Who had later tried to break into the school, to steal something from Henry’s office. Marina’s memories…

Quentin shook his head, standing up. “No,” he said. “No way.” Staring down at Penny, he thinks he could easily combust on the spot. “It’s not like I’m the first, Penny. Mayakovsky and Emily—”

“Is not something Henry will do again,” Penny interrupted. “Quentin, he answers to someone just like we answer to him. He got heat when he sent Mayakovsky away. I think he only got away with it because no one else was willing to work the South campus. And Emily…” Penny sighs. “Magicians don’t do well when they’re put back out in the real world knowing they were at Brakebills. Emily killed herself a few years ago. Man, if Henry finds out, and he expels Eliot… he’ll take it all. Every memory from the last three years.”

Quentin stops breathing. He stares down at Penny, not seeing him, not seeing anything except ash and dirt, hearing nothing except his own screams echoing inside his head.

_Magic saved me._

Quentin jams his eyes shut, nearly falling down to sit on his bed, head in his hands. Eliot’s memories of magic—Quentin doesn’t even think it’s possible to erase them, with how innately talented Eliot is. He was moving buses as a teenager, what would he do as an adult with no knowledge of how to use the power running through him?

Or would Henry take care of that too? Make it impossible for Eliot to cast? He’d go through life never knowing magic, what he’s capable of… never knowing Quentin. Which would probably be good for Eliot. But he’d also forget Margo, the only real family he’s ever had.

“He _can’t do that_ ,” Quentin says, sitting up. “I won’t _let it happen_.” Eliot’s face under a moonlit sky, _I don't know what that says about me, that I could never give up this thing that has hurt me so much_ , fuck, Quentin’s brain is convalescing, exploding inside his skull. _Why do I fuck over everyone I love?_

“Q,” Penny says softly. “Man, I’m sorry. But I don’t think you’ll have a choice.”

Quentin wrings his hands together, then wipes away the tears gathering in his eyes. “Wh—What do I do, Penny? He can’t—I can’t let that happen to Eliot. I—” he shudders, his hands in his hair, thoughts scrambling one over the other, trying desperately to get to the top and it’s all just _too much_.

“Quentin.” He feels strong hands on his wrists, pulling them away from his hair. Everything is blurry, and he blinks once, twice, slowly, before opening his eyes and focusing on Penny’s face, a foot away from his own. Penny is kneeling in front of Quentin, gently pulling his hands away from his face. “Deep breaths, man. Come on.”

Quentin closes his eyes, focusing on inhaling deeply through his nose, and exhaling through his mouth. Penny keeps talking to him, his fingers loosely circling Quentin’s wrists.

“Look. I know this week has already been a shit show for you. And if you weren’t fucking in _love_ , like some goddamn idiot in those movies you force me to watch when you’re drying out, then I’d have no problem leaving you to deal with your own shit.” Quentin’s pulse is starting to slow down, though his mind won’t shut the fuck up. _Eliot smiling, Eliot crying, Eliot full of blue lightning, Eliot looking at him like he’s a stranger._ The images keep flashing through his mind, like a horribly depressing movie you know will keep you up at night but you just can’t stop fucking watching. Quentin opens his eyes and focuses on Penny, gently pulling his hands out of Penny’s grip.

Penny, still kneeling on the floor, leans back on one knee. “You’re a fucking mess.”

Quentin presses his lips together, looking over at the door. “What an astute observation. And thank you for your everlasting support, Penny. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

Penny rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe I didn’t put it together—all the late nights I saw you leaving the Observatory Tower, I thought you just wanted to get high somewhere that wasn't this depressing ass room, tiptoeing around the fucking—” he glances away, frowning, then back to Quentin. “Did you bring him _here_?” He quickly shakes his head— “Don’t—Don’t answer that. I’m impressed you kept your wards up all this time. God, even a year ago I would have known in five minutes who you were fucking.”

Quentin looks over at his phone, the text message notification still lighting up his screen. He swallows, tears rising in his throat again.

“Quentin,” Penny says, drawing Quentin’s attention back to him, “I can’t tell you what to do. But if you really love this guy—this isn’t something me or Julia or anyone can fix for you. If the wrong person finds out. And someone _will_ , Quentin. I am truly, _honestly_ shocked you’ve kept it a secret this long. Like, props to you, did not think you were capable.”

Quentin sniffs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he leans over his knees. “Did you tell anyone? Pearl?” he asks.

“No,” Penny says. “She would’ve gone straight to Henry. If she finds out I knew, she will not be happy with me.” He sighs. “But that’s the norm these days, anyway.” He stands up, walking over to Quentin’s desk and leaning against it.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone, and if anyone asks, I’m saying I knew nothing.” He fixes Quentin with a look he knows well—pity and concern. “I really am sorry. You got a raw deal in life, Coldwater. I just… don’t want it to get worse.”

Quentin nods, staring at the floor. It’s already worse. His fingers twitch and he glances up at the wooden box on his dresser. He wants to get high. He wants a drink. He wants to not deal with this right now. Or ever.

God, this is why. Why he should’ve kept Eliot away from that barrier around his heart, fortified it with adamantium or unobtanium or what the fuck ever. As easily as he thought his wounds were healing over, they’re being ripped open, blood pooling all around him.

But here he is. Right where he knew he’d be. It hurts so much worse than he’d ever imagined.

He glances up at Penny, who’s still looking down at him with that mixture of pity, concern and irritation in his eyes. As angry as he is right now, he knows it could be much worse if Penny didn’t come to him. “Thank you,” he says. “For. Caring, I guess.” He chuckles humorlessly. “I guess _folklore_ really got to you, huh?”

For the tenth time since he stepped into the room, Penny rolls his eyes, although he does chuckle as he does it. “Well it’s better than that _1989_ shit, I’ll give you that.” He steps away from Quentin’s desk. “I’m gonna go, but I’m down the hall. Don’t do anything stupid. Okay?”

 _Those are the only things I know how to do_ , he thinks. Out loud he whispers, “Okay,” as he looks over at his phone. He’s picking it up as Penny softly shuts the door behind him.

Eliot has sent him a few more texts.

_Eliot [4:05pm]_

_My room. As soon as it gets dark. In fact, I think I just learned a spell to block out the sun in a specific area, let me see if I can get that going._

_Eliot [4:27pm]_

_Okay apparently blocking the sun so you can get laid is “stupidly desperate,” to quote someone that shall remain nameless, and a lot more involved than I remember._

_But the sun should set soon anyway. And you can head over whenever if you wanna throw up some invisibility._

_Can’t wait to see you. I might’ve missed you. Just a little. ;)_

“Fuck.”

Quentin stares at his phone, resisting the urge to hurl it across the room. There’s nothing he can do. He and Eliot can’t continue—it’s too dangerous. He loves Eliot too much to risk him losing everything that makes him who he is.

He could quit. The thought had been so relieving just moments ago. But now, as he sits in the only room that’s been his real home for the past five years, a new wave of fear crests over him. He quits, and then… he lives with Julia, hoping his reputation from Brakebills doesn’t follow him to wherever he lands next? He mooches off her until Eliot graduates, if they’re even still together by then? No. He’s enough of a burden as it is.

He knew this was coming. From that first touch in the Observatory Tower, first kiss on the sidewalk, he knew this was how it would all end. In fire and ash, a bloody trail leading to his heart, torn in two on the ground. He’d let himself forget, these past few months. With every touch, every glide of Eliot’s fingers on Quentin’s neck, every press of lips on hot skin, every shared glance and secret smile. Quentin had let himself believe. In something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for years—a future.

Those few days at the cabin had planted a seed in Quentin’s mind, one he couldn’t help but nurture. With daydreams and fantasies of Eliot and a life beyond the wards of Brakebills. Sharing the same space, arguing over what to put on the walls, sleeping in the same bed every night, cooking and dancing and watching stupid movies and just _living_. In no time at all, the seed had grown, forcing its way out of the dirt and ash Quentin had placed it in, blossoming into a gorgeous, colorful bloom full of light and hope and _possibility_.

What a fucking joke.

It’s dying, right in front of Quentin’s eyes. Shriveling up, curling in on itself, colors fading to black and grey as it’s parched leaves wither and fall to the ground. And there’s nothing Quentin can do, except damn himself for foolishly believing it could thrive in the first place.

~~~

_Eliot_

Eliot takes the stairs two at a time, so full of energy he’s tempted to literally fly up to the top of the Observatory Tower. He’d been confused when Quentin had asked to meet here—why come here when there’s a perfectly good, empty bed waiting in Eliot’s room? But it was probably for the best—the first Saturday after class started always meant a raging “back to school” party at the Cottage. Which he had spent most of today setting up for, and Margo was none too pleased when he slipped away just as things were getting started. But he’s so ready to see Quentin he doesn’t really give a shit.

The past week had dragged—texts and phone calls were great, but nowhere near as good as the real thing. After days together in the cabin, and then seeing each other near daily after—Eliot has been having Quentin withdrawals, except instead of chills and body shakes, he’s suffering from ill-timed erections and vivid daydreams.

All of which are quickly forgotten as soon as he crosses the threshold into the room at the top of the tower and sees Quentin sitting on the bench—the same one where they’d first smoked together and repaired the pocket watch that’s in Eliot’s pocket right now. The little window is shoved halfway open, and Quentin has a joint between his lips, blowing smoke out into the dark night.

“Q,” Eliot says, unable to keep the smile from forming on his face. He’s across the tower in four quick strides, and he pulls Quentin, who’s hardly risen from his seat, into a tight hug.

“Hey,” Quentin says, and Eliot can hear a quiver in his voice. He frowns and is about to pull away when Quentin throws his arms around Eliot and squeezes, pressing his nose into Eliot’s neck. A soft shudder runs through Quentin’s body, and Eliot holds him tighter, dropping a kiss on his head.

“You okay?” Eliot asks, one hand reaching up to grip the back of Quentin’s neck, lightly squeeze it and then run his fingers through his soft hair.

“No,” Quentin says, and something in his voice sends an icy chill through Eliot’s heart. He pulls away slightly to look at Quentin, and he’s surprised to see his eyes red-rimmed, his face splotchy, like he’s been crying. He knew it’s been a hard week for Quentin, but their phone calls over the last day or so, their texts—Quentin seemed in better spirits. But grief can hit that way, Eliot knows. Fine one minute, vomiting in the back alley behind a bar the next.

Before he can open his mouth to ask, Quentin pushes up and catches Eliot’s lips in a kiss. It’s hard and desperate, Quentin’s hands gripping Eliot’s neck, reeling him in like he’s trying to commit the taste of him to memory—and _something is very wrong._

Quentin pulls slightly away, a few inches, and says, “Penny knows.”

Eliot pauses, trying to make sense of what Quentin is saying when a memory of a week ago, going to the portal and running into Professor Adiyodi—whose name is listed as William “Penny” Adiyodi on all his class schedules— _You’re a student_ —and Eliot’s mouth goes dry, the blood draining from his face as he stares down at Quentin.

“Wh—What?” he stammers, pulling further away, almost out of Quentin’s grip. Quentin follows him, stepping forward, sliding his hands down to grasp Eliot’s.

“Penny knows. About us,” Quentin says. His lips press together as he tugs Eliot over to the bench, pulling him to sit down next to him. Eliot follows, feeling like all of the air has been sucked out of the tower. He glances through the window, seeing the stars twinkling down at them. The same ones they’d lain under on New Year’s Eve, hundreds of miles away, far from Brakebills and all of their problems.

“I—I ran into him,” Eliot admits, his fingers tightening on Quentin’s. “When I was taking the portal over to Julia’s. That night. How did he know—”

“It’s my fault,” Quentin says, his eyes cloudy as he looks at Eliot. “Penny—you know he’s a psychic. Julia called him that night, when I wouldn’t wake up. He went into my head, when I was dreaming… dreaming about you.” Quentin’s face crumples for a moment, and then he shakes it away. His fingers wrap around Eliot’s wrists, pushing up under his sleeves to wrap around his forearms. “We—we have to stop. Seeing each other.”

Eliot’s _heart_ stops, freezing in his chest as he stares down at Quentin. A shocked laugh falls from his lips, for some reason, and he looks out the window, down at Quentin’s hands on his own. He shakes his head—“Q, I—what did he say? Did he go to Fogg?”

“No,” Quentin says, and Eliot can hear the pain in his voice, the tears clogging his throat. “He said he won’t tell anyone.”

Eliot meets Quentin’s eyes at that, nearly pulling out of his grip again, trying to follow what Quentin is saying. This doesn’t make sense. “Then—I—why do we have to stop? I mean it’s not _ideal_ , but if he won’t tell—”

“Because, Eliot,” Quentin says. He looks exhausted, wrung out, and Eliot crazily wonders when was the last time he ate anything, “I didn’t realize—didn’t fucking think. About what happens. If we do get caught.”

Eliot does pull his hands away at that, his throat tightening, anger sparking in his chest. Who he’s mad at, he’s not sure—Quentin, Professor Adiyodi, the entire fucking world. He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself in a world that is violently tilting on its axis. “Quentin, we’re not going to get caught, we’ve been—”

“We will,” Quentin says, his hands falling to the bench they’re sitting on. “Eliot, we were already taking stupid chances with how much we met. After the past few weeks… can you really go back to how it was before? Seeing each other for a few hours twice a week? Sneaking around, not being able to acknowledge each other in front of other people? You invited me over to your room tonight, but there’s a party at the Cottage, right? How many times can I sneak in before the wrong person sees me? And people are probably wondering where you are.”

“Fuck those people,” Eliot says, standing up. He feels like the tower is closing in on him, like the stars in the sky are getting closer, hurtling towards the earth, hellbent on his destruction. “I don’t _care_ , Quentin. I’ll fucking quit. Then I won’t be a student anymore, if that’s what it takes.” As the words leave his lips, he knows how desperate they sound. But he doesn’t care. He can do this. It won’t be easy—he never got a mentor in his past years at Brakebills, no one picked him up first year, and second year, he was a bit distracted with the whole personal tragedy thing and didn’t even try to get one. If he didn’t finish Brakebills, he’d have to find a coven for his magic, which wouldn’t be _bad_ per se. Kady likes him, maybe she could—

“No,” Quentin says firmly. He stands up, taking a few steps away from Eliot. “You’re _not_ doing that.” He turns back to Eliot, coming to a stop in front of him, reaching for his hands again. “You’re _smart_ , Eliot. So fucking talented; your power is unreal. You’re going somewhere, after all this. You’re not going to throw that away. Not for anyone, and especially not for me.”

Eliot resists the urge to yank his hands away, stomp his feet like a toddler. Where is this coming from? He looks down at the floor, breathing in and out, trying to get his heart to slow down. “Quentin, I can’t—I don’t see _why_ we have to stop. We can set limits or—or see each other less. I don’t want you to get fired—”

Quentin barks out a laugh. "I don’t give a shit about getting fired. You— _you_ I care about.” He sighs. “Eliot, if we get caught, I’ll get fired, yeah. But you—you’ll get expelled. And if you get expelled, they’ll take it all. Magic, Brakebills… me. Everything.”

Eliot shakes his head, his brain refusing to absorb what Quentin is saying. There’s only static in his mind, a numbness starting to spread through his limbs. “I don’t understand.”

“When students are expelled, they take their memories,” Quentin explains, and Eliot feels like he can see Quentin’s heart breaking behind his large brown eyes. “Everything from these past few years… will be gone. No magic. No Brakebills. No Margo. No us.” His voice cracks, and he wipes at his eyes. “Penny knows, Julia and Kady know, Margo knows… it’s only a matter of time before the wrong person finds us. And then it’ll be out of our hands.”

Eliot is already shaking his head, biting his lower lips as his eyes glaze over with tears. He blinks them away rapidly, turning away. He’d heard of students having their memories wiped away when expelled, but that was always in the first year. “They wouldn’t do that,” he says, not believing the words even as they come out of his mouth. Of course they would fucking do that. He was probably lucky he’d come out of the Mike situation with his brain intact; although, if they’d asked him then, he probably would have quickly, gladly given up those memories.

He hears Quentin’s sigh behind him. “They would. They _have_. Magic, everything you’ve built here… Margo. You would never know her. You can’t lose that for… something that isn’t worth it.”

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut, his hands clenching into fists at Quentin’s words. _Margo would kill every single one of them_ , is Eliot’s immediate thought. She would find him, restore him, if it all went sideways. He knows she would, just like he would do for her. In a heartbeat. They can do this, there are ways—

His thoughts are interrupted by Quentin’s soft voice behind him. “Eliot,” he sighs, “We always knew there was a time limit here.”

White hot anger blazes through Eliot’s body, searing out of his belly throughout his torso, down his limbs all the way to his hands and feet, and he’s shocked there aren’t electric sparks flying from his fingertips. He whirls on Quentin, taking a step towards him.

“ _Did we_?” he snaps, the words sharp on his tongue like nails. “Well I guess I wasn’t _informed_ of our _expiration date_.” He sees Quentin’s throat bob as he swallows, his gaze dropping to Eliot’s feet. “Tell me, if Penny hadn’t found out, what would you have done? Do you have a clock in your head, like my fucking pocket watch, counting down to when you were going to cut the cord? Until you’d fully _scratched_ your _itch_?”

A bolt of satisfaction shoots through Eliot at Quentin’s wounded look, immediately washed away by a wave of regret at the pain flickering in his eyes. Eliot breaks his gaze, looking instead at that orange chair, way too bright in the middle of this dark fucking night.

“ _No_ ,” Quentin says, one hand running through his hair, then dropping to his side. “Eliot, please,” he pleads, looking anywhere but _at_ Eliot. “This isn’t—I _told you_. That I couldn’t promise you anything. That I—break things. God, the other night I told you _just how badly_ I fuck things up. I can’t let you be another casualty—”

“Stop.” Eliot holds up a hand, anger, frustration, and a desperation he’s never felt before overwhelming his senses. “Just fucking _stop_.” He’s moving in the small space now, gesturing and turning, talking to the heavens just as much as he is Quentin. “How—How are we _still here_ , Quentin? After the past few weeks… I told you things I’ve never told _anyone_. Not even Margo. And you—I _know_ you. All these months, and this same _fucking bullshit_. You can’t just— _give up_ on us because things get hard.”

He’s facing Quentin now, just a foot away. He’s close enough to see the redness rimming Quentin’s eyes as he shakes his head, the tremble in his fingers as he reaches up to push his hair behind his ear. The lips he’s kissed so many times, that he can’t imagine not kissing every day for the rest of his life, pulling down in sadness. “There’s hard, and then there’s fucking _erasing your mind_ , Eliot,” Quentin retorts. “Erasing who you _are_.”

Eliot steps closer to Quentin, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck, the other sliding inside Quentin’s jacket, pressing against his waist. Quentin instantly moves closer, a small sob escaping his lips. Eliot leans down, presses his lips against Quentin’s, and Quentin responds instantly, kissing him back. It’s hard and soft all at once, the firm push of Eliot’s mouth on Quentin’s, the gentle touch of Eliot’s bottom lip fitting between Quentin’s. Eliot slowly withdraws, pressing their foreheads together as Quentin runs his hands up Eliot’s chest, hooks his fingers into his vest. “Q,” Eliot whispers, “I believe. That we can make this work. Together.”

“Eliot—”

“I love you.”

It falls out of Eliot’s mouth before he even knows he’s going to say it, and he wishes so hard he’d told Quentin when he’d first thought it. Maybe they wouldn’t be where they are now. Maybe when Quentin’s mom had died, he would’ve called Eliot, knowing he had someone who loved him, would keep him warmer than any bottle of liquor ever could. He knows he must sound so desperate, unable to let go, and he is, fuck _he is_ , but he doesn’t care. He’s not losing Quentin. Not without a fight.

Quentin goes completely still, and Eliot thinks he stops breathing for a moment. His hands are still gripping Eliot’s vest, they’re so close his breath is blowing across Eliot’s lips, and the silence snaps between them, just like that string Eliot used to imagine pulling them together, back before they got all tangled up in it.

Then Quentin exhales a shaky breath, and Eliot slides one hand up to his cheek to wipe away the tears falling down his face. “You don’t—You don’t love me,” he whispers. “You can’t.”

“I do,” Eliot confirms, and it’s vibrating throughout his entire body, a vicious hum that shakes him down to his bones. He loves Quentin—the most inconvenient, impossible person he ever could have picked to love. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. Taking a deep breath, he says, “And I think you love me, too.”

Quentin’s hands are on his back, nails digging into his shirt, into his skin, arms tense around Eliot, muscles quivering like he’s trying to force his body to convey what his mouth won’t. Eliot waits, and waits and waits.

“Tell me you don’t,” Eliot whispers softly. _Tell me you do._ “Tell me you don’t feel the same.” _You love me just as fucking much as I love you._

Eliot can’t resist leaning forward, pressing his lips to Quentin’s. He’s still, unmoving under Eliot’s mouth, until he isn’t—he’s pushing up, one hand moving to fist into Eliot’s hair, holding him so tightly it’s nearly painful. Eliot would pass out before breaking this connection; he puts everything he has into the kiss, pouring every ounce of love and desperation into it, licking into Quentin’s mouth and hoping that this makes Quentin _understand_ , makes him fucking _see_ that this is worth more than… whatever the fuck he’s afraid of.

The kiss slows down, Quentin’s grip relaxing as he drops a softer, chaste kiss against Eliot’s lips. Quentin’s hands slide out of Eliot’s hair, sliding down his shoulders to wrap around his waist. Then Quentin presses his face against Eliot’s neck, inhaling deep and long as he hugs Eliot tightly. Eliot allows himself to recognize that flame of hope burning bright in his heart when—

Quentin’s arms loosen, and then drop away completely. He steps back from Eliot, one hand reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “I told you,” he says, slowly, finally looking up to meet Eliot’s gaze. “What I feel doesn’t matter.”

Something splits inside Eliot, the cracks that he’d almost managed to forget existed in his foundation widening, splintering off until there’s a canyon so deep and dark he’s not sure it even has a bottom. The flame dies out, pain stabbing through his heart so sharp and fierce he imagines it’s piercing his soul, the air rushing out, collapsing in on itself until all that’s left is an empty void.

“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,” he whispers, and Quentin’s brow furrows in confusion. Eliot stares at Quentin, his eyes flat. “You’re never going to let me in, are you? Not really. You can tell me all your secrets, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t trust what’s in front of you.” He reaches into his pocket, fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the pocket watch. The thing he’s carried with him for months, smiling every time he thought of it. He wants to throw it out the fucking window. “So this is it?”

Quentin’s eyes close, his face crumpling. “Eliot—” The way Quentin cuts himself off, how he won’t meet Eliot’s gaze, tells Eliot all he needs to know.

“I should go,” Eliot says, his gaze shifting off to the side. He reaches for Quentin’s hand, pressing the pocket watch into his palm. He thinks if he keeps it with him, the weight of it will keep him rooted to the floor, unable to drag his feet away. “Better get back to the Cottage before anyone misses me.” His voice is soft, neutral. Numb.

Quentin’s hand is still pressed against his own, and he almost, _almost_ gives Quentin’s hand one final squeeze. ( _this is all you get._ ) Instead he just lets his hand drop, and before he can give into the voice yelling at him to _stay, stay and fix it_ , he turns, his limbs moving on auto-pilot, down the stairs, through the door, striding away from the Observatory Tower.

Leaving his pocket watch behind in one of Quentin’s hands, and his barely-beating heart in the other.

~~~

_Quentin_

Quentin staggers backward in the tower, falling onto the bench he had been sitting on when Eliot came in. He stares at his open palm, at the silver pocket watch Eliot had pressed into his hand before he walked out of the tower. And Quentin’s life.

His chest is tight, his breath coming faster and harder as tears prick at his eyelids. _What the fuck did you just do?_

 _You saved his life_ , is the response, the rebounding echo in his mind. _You did what you had to do._

_Did I?_

Quentin knew it would hurt, but he didn’t think the hole he would tear in himself would be so gaping, so dark and cavernous. When Alice died, both times, he’d thought that crushing, grinding pain would be the worst pain he’d ever feel. That nothing could possibly rival the anguish boiling inside his veins.

He’d been wrong.

He can’t stop staring at the pocket watch, at its pristine glass surface, at the tiny little hands _tick-tick-ticking_ away, counting every fucking second since he’d made yet another ‘worst decision of his life. ‘

_I love you._

Eliot loves him. _Loved_ him now, Quentin was sure. In two sentences Quentin destroyed any chance of a future for the two of them. Pushed Eliot away, hard and firmly, for good. They had ended just like he had always thought it would.

In tears and heartache. Broken glass and twisted metal, his heart bleeding out on the tower floor.

He couldn’t—He _couldn’t_ tell Eliot he loves him. That he would do anything, _anything_ to keep him safe. If he had said it—said the words right to Eliot’s beautiful, hopeful, destroyed face—how could Quentin walk away from him?

Eliot may be hurting now, but he’ll get over it. He’ll realize that Quentin did what was best; even if somehow the Brakebills of it all didn’t exist, Quentin would have fucked it up eventually. He always has.

Quentin isn’t sure how long he sits on that bench, staring at the timepiece in his hand, talking to his heart, trying to convince it he’d made the right decision. When his breathing finally slows, when his fingers stop shaking, when his eyes are dry, his first though is _I need a fucking drink_. To _forget_. He pats his pockets for another joint, his flask, a pill, anything, but he’d smoked the last one while waiting for Eliot and that was all he’d brought. There wasn’t much in his room either, since he’d brought his stash with him to Philly and had gone through all of it.

He could call Josh—or go to the bar—and—and—

 _And what?_ Drink until he passes out again? There would be no Julia to rescue him, not this time. The ledge he’s been balancing on would crumble, and Quentin would tumble down into nothingness.

Maybe that’s what he needs. To just disappear. To where he won’t hurt anyone anymore.

 _Stop_ , Quentin thinks. He takes out his phone, his finger shaking as he opens his texts, forcing himself to not look at the ones from Eliot at top of the list. He finds his conversation with Julia.

_Quentin [8:23pm]_

_I need help. Can I come over?_

_Julia [8:24pm]_

_Of course. We’re hanging at home. Are you okay? Need me to call?_

_Quentin [8:26pm]_

_I’m not okay. But I’m on my way._

_Thank you._

~~~

Julia greets him at the door with a concerned smile and a hug, and she pulls him inside. Kady is sitting on the couch, and her eyes slide over him as he sits down across from her.

“I’m really sorry to, uh, interrupt,” he says, looking at the open pizza box on the coffee table. He quickly averts his eyes; he was already nauseated, and just the sight of food makes his stomach flip.

Kady snorts, flipping the pizza box shut as Quentin’s face pales. “That’s a first, usually you don’t apologize until you sober up in the morning.” She moves to get up, and stops at Quentin’s voice.

“I’m not drunk,” he says sharply. And yeah, _maybe_ he’s still a _little_ high from what he’d smoked before he saw Eliot, but he feels entirely too sober right now. “I broke up with Eliot,” he says bluntly. “Penny found out about us, and, uh—” He breaks off, inhaling deeply as he fights against the tears stinging against his eyelids.

Julia sits down next to him, taking his hand. Kady sits back down on the couch, sighing softly. “Did he go to Henry?” she asks, and even though her voice is soft, he can hear the worry bleeding through.

“No,” Quentin chokes out, and the past few hours tumble out of him. His conversation with Penny. How their relationship could cost Eliot the most important things in his life. Quentin leaves out a few details, like the words _I love you_ and the fact that Quentin could’ve said them back but didn’t and _what the fuck has he done_?

He’ll never kiss Eliot again. Never touch him again. No more texts or late night phone calls. God, what will it be like to see him on campus? Quentin will probably burst into tears and do something horribly embarrassing, like throw himself at Eliot’s feet, begging forgiveness while Eliot steps right over him on his way to class. Would Eliot even look at him? In one conversation, Quentin has destroyed the only thing in his life that has actually made him happy in the past five years.

All for _what_? So he can keep working at a job that has been slowly killing him? Where he can’t take ten steps without being reminded of the worst days of his life? There’s an iron fist squeezing his lungs, his brain a tornado of every horrible thought he’s had his entire life, obliterating all in it’s path.

“Jules, I—I—can’t breathe.” One hand flails out, and she catches it, squeezing his palm.

“Head to your knees,” she says, rubbing soothingly on his back. “Deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He listens, closing his eyes, focusing on the air filling his lungs, wishing with every inhale he could turn back time. To before he broke his own heart. Earlier today. Five years ago. Before he was born, so he could tell his dad to wear a fucking condom. When it no longer feels like the walls of the penthouse are closing in on him, when it doesn’t take everything he has just to fucking inhale, he slowly sits up. He opens his eyes to find Kady watching him warily.

Shame immediately flows through him. What was it Penny had said? _You know you’re an adult, right?_ He can’t keep doing this to Julia; to everyone around him. Interrupting their lives because he can’t go a day without a fucking nervous breakdown.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. “I—I shouldn’t have bothered you. Again. Not after—”

“Shut up, Coldwater,” Kady says. “This is an _actual_ problem. And you came to us before you went to the bar. That’s called progress.”

Quentin swallows, staring at the pizza crumbs on the coffee table. “I think I made a mistake.” _I_ know _I made one of the biggest fucking mistakes of my life._

He waits for the snide remark, the heavy sigh, the implicit silence from Julia and Kady that reflects the loathing swirling around inside of him. But Julia only says quietly, as she squeezes his hand, “I know this hurts right now. But it sounds like you’re doing the best thing for Eliot.”

“That’s what I thought with Alice,” he says bitterly. “I just—” He sighs, turning to Julia. “Why am I choosing fucking Brakebills over—over the person I—” He pulls his hand from Julia’s, running it through his hair. “Everywhere I look, there’s a reminder. Of Alice, of all my fuck ups in life. I _love_ teaching, I really do, and it made sense for me to take the job at Brakebills, but I can’t figure out—why am I holding on to it so hard now?”

Julia exchanges a look with Kady, and inhales as she turns back to him. “I think change is hard for you, Q. And while I don’t think quitting your job for a guy is the _healthiest_ thing—”

“It wouldn’t be the worst decision you’ve made in the past year. Or five years,” Kady says. She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “There are other places you can teach,” she continues. “If you can get your shit together. Sober up. For real.”

Quentin bites his lower lip, his head hanging down. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, although it hasn’t come up in at least a year. It wouldn’t even be his first time trying to stop drinking, although he’d never lasted longer than a week or so. Kady and Julia had brought up meetings, detox, rehab… Kady had given up quickly. Julia had pressed on for much longer, until she just accepted that this was who Quentin was now.

Quentin knows he needs to stop. He’s going to kill every relationship he has, and possibly himself if he doesn’t. But some days, it’s the only reason he gets out of bed. Knowing that he can smoke or drink and feel even the slightest relief when the pain he lives with daily dulls just a little. Push his problems behind a wall of whiskey and pot, the only things that he felt connected to. The only things that even had a shot at filling the void inside of him.

Until he met Eliot. He hadn’t even realized how much Eliot filled in his blank space, connected him back to a life he’d forgotten existed.

“I, uh—I want to do that. But I don’t think I can do it alone.” Before they can say anything else, he pushes forward. “I know I’ve—I’m fucked up. I’ve taken you for granted, both of you. I’m so sorry. I want to say I’ll do better, but… I know I’ve said that before. But I can tell you that I will do my best.” He raises his eyes, looks to Julia and then over to Kady. “Will you help me?”

Julia’s eyes are sparkling with tears as she reaches over with both hands, clasping Quentin’s palm between her own. “Of course,” she says.

“It’s not gonna be easy,” Kady interjects. “I don’t think meetings are going to do it for you.”

Quentin nods. “Yeah, I—I’ve thought about it.” It isn’t _technically_ a lie, he has thought about how he should stop drinking. It’s just never gone farther than that one thought before he was back at a bar or swallowing a pill. “I’ve done therapy, and other… things before. Nothing really sticks.”

“Yeah well, you have to _want_ it to stick,” Kady says. “There’s a place outside the city. A little more relaxed than what you may have tried before. For Magicians. I’ll give them a call. If you decide that’s what you want.”

Quentin freezes for a moment, squashing down his initial response of _No thanks, I can handle this on my own_ , because he literally _just_ asked for help, and here it is, something very real and hard and he _cannot_ do this. Then Julia squeezes his hand again, and a warm, saturated wave flows through him, and when he turns to Julia he recognizes it as relief.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, nodding, tears falling down his face _again_. “I think it is.”

He still has more to get out, and he lets the tears fall down his face as he talks. “Julia, these past few months, keeping him from you—It’s been so hard. I’ve wanted to tell you. So much.” She gives him a small smile, and it gives him the strength to keep going. “So I just didn’t tell you anything. I hated lying to you. I don’t think you’ll ever know how much.”

Julia looks at him, searching his face, and Quentin can practically see the gears turning in her head. She nods, glancing down at their joined hands. “So tell me about him. Tell me all the things you’ve been holding back for months.”

Quentin wipes the tears from his cheeks, chuckling. “How much time do you have?” he jokes, and she smiles, and his heart feels a thousand times lighter just watching it blossom across her face. “Okay—um—God. About what a good cook he is. I know he made breakfast, but you have no idea. Like he can make pizza from scratch and throw the dough up in the air and everything. He has this ridiculous obsession with Audrey Hepburn movies; I’ve probably watched _Roman Holiday_ three times in the past four months, which I like better than _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ and he always tells me I’m ‘so plebeian.’ Whatever. I’ve never met anyone who knows _less_ about Star Trek than he does, which is something I’m rectifying, don’t worry.” Quentin suddenly can’t shut up, a small smile forming on his face as he speaks. “Or anyone who knows more about polyester blends, which is an hour of my life I’ll never get back, but that’s okay because I got to listen to him talk for an hour. When I’m with him, Jules, I just feel…” He laughs again, like he can’t believe the words coming out his mouth, “like when I sat down at the exam for Brakebills and I just _knew_ this was where I belonged. Like the first time I taught someone magic, remember at my thirteenth birthday party where Dad got a magician and _I_ taught _him_ how to do a double lift?” Julie nods, laughing, her eyes trained on him. “He just… he makes me feel like I can do anything,” Quentin finishes, his eyes darting around the room because he’d never said any of those things out loud before and _wow_ did it feel amazing.

Julia nods, and Quentin watches as she brushes tears out of her eyes. “It sounds like you really love him,” she says, squeezing his hand.

“I do,” he says, feeling it settle into his heart, sink down into his bone marrow. “He makes me want to be better. Than I am. And I—I couldn’t fucking tell him that. I thought it was the right thing. Make it easier for him to—I don’t fucking know.”

“Make it easier for _you_ , maybe,” Kady says, sighing. “You couldn’t think of all this _before_ you broke up with him?” she asks, ignoring the look Julia shoots her.

Quentin sighs, standing up, pacing the small area between the coffee table and the fire place. “I panicked! Penny told me they would erase his memories, and I—” He pulls out his phone. “I should call him.” He turns away, putting his phone to his ear. It goes to voicemail after only a few rings, the robotic automated message telling him his party is not available. At the beep, he opens his mouth to leave a message and nothing comes out except for a few pathetic little squeaks because what the _fuck_ do you say on a voicemail to the person who’s heart you just crushed hours before?

He hangs up and turns to Julia and Kady. “I’m going back to Brakebills.”

“Q,” Julia says, getting up. “Slow down.” She lays a hand on his arm, and it takes everything he has to stop his feet from sailing out the door. “He may not want to hear what you have to say. And this has been an intense week for you. A lot of changes. Maybe sleep on it? Make sure this is what you want before you make any huge life-altering decisions?”

Julia is right. He knows she’s right. This is his problem, he just _does_ shit without thinking about the consequences. What if he goes to Henry, turns in his resignation, and Eliot refuses to talk to him? What if Quentin’s burned, god, fucking incinerated all his bridges leading to Eliot? Or what if Eliot doesn’t want that kind of life with Quentin? Maybe he _enjoys_ the professor of it all, the secret thrill of getting caught, and the entire thing will lose it’s sparkle when he’s just plain old Quentin, and not Professor Coldwater. Sure, Eliot had said he loved him, but he was desperate, upset.

“You’re right,” he tells Julia, who startles for a moment.

“I am?” she says incredulously. “I mean, _yeah_ , I am,” she continues, nodding. “I just didn’t think you’d actually—agree with me. Without more of a fight, anyway.”

Quentin nods, sinking back down onto the couch. “Eliot and I… we haven’t talked about the future or—he may not even want that with me, you know?”

“ _Oh my god_.” Quentin and Julia turn to Kady, who is staring at Quentin like he’s the biggest jackass in the world. So the normal way she looks at him, basically. “Of all the fucking things to freak out over, how that man feels about you is _not_ the one you should be worried about. He is head over heels, and if you can’t see that, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

Quentin looks up at Julia, who nods. He sighs, sitting back against the couch. It’s so easy for everyone else to see the obvious; why is it always so hard for him to accept the good in his life? _Because you know you don’t deserve it_ , whispers the Alice that he thinks will always live in his head. He shakes her away, focusing back on his friends.

“He’s what I want. A life with him—away from Brakebills. I know it. I have to tell him that. As soon as possible.” As the words come out of his mouth, a sweet relief coasts through his body—an innate calmness melting against his skin, soothing the anxiety that’s been cresting for the past several hours. He can’t remember the last time he felt this certain, an absolute unquestionable rightness that he was, for once, making the right decision.

“Look,” Kady says, standing up. “As great as it is that you’ve found someone that makes you want to stop jerking off into your vodka every night, you can’t go busting into the Cottage on a Saturday night like you’re Xena saving Gabrielle for the thousandth time, pretending you’re just ‘friends.’” She holds up her hands and does the air quotes, rolling her eyes.

Julia smirks at her, “Babe, that’s the gayest analogy I’ve ever heard,” earning a swift side-eye from Kady.

“If you really want to quit Brakebills, you need to do it on your own terms. Take the night and talk to Fogg and Eliot tomorrow.” Kady gives him a rueful smile. “If your boy can keep up with you at the bar, and you just broke it off, I doubt he’ll be in any shape to talk to you tonight, anyway.”

Quentin frowns, looking down at his hands. They’re right, he knows. He can text Eliot, but if he won’t respond or answer Quentin’s calls, trying to track him down at the Cottage during the semester’s first rager probably isn't the best idea. His gut twists as he thinks of what Eliot might be thinking, doing right now. _I’m such a fucking asshole._

Quentin nods. “Alright, I’ll—I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I’m still going to text him tonight, though.”

Julia sighs. “Just prepare yourself. He’s probably pretty angry right now.”

Quentin sighs. “Thank you both. Again. I’d probably be dead ten times over if not for you two.”

“More like twenty,” Kady says. “Not that I’m keeping track.”

~~~

Eliot doesn’t remember the walk back to the Cottage, or meandering through the students gathering on the bottom floor to his makeshift bar. He just knows that one second his heart was being torn to bits, and the next he’s being pulled into the corner alcove by Margo, with no idea how much time has passed from Point A to Point B.

“Eliot.” Her voice is stern, wavering, demanding. Worried. “What the fuck is going on? Talk to me.”

He stares past her, at the piano, which is covered in streamers, glitter and, for some reason, has a large pineapple sitting on top of it. Everything is _loud_ , the walls and floor are nearly vibrating. Even the bench he’s sitting on is pulsing off and on insistently against his thigh, in a way that feels oddly familiar. It feels like his phone, but his fingers are too numb to check it. It’s not like it would be Quentin anyway, the one person he wants to hear from. Everything is moving and swirling in time to the throbbing music, which suddenly drops out under the sound ward Margo quickly casts around them.

Before this term, he’d never really _looked_ at that piano before, never had a real reason. After he mended it with Quentin, he’d glance at it every time he descended the stairs and smile, the memory of how their magic melded and transformed the piano from a broken thing into something whole, better than it was before, always making his heart swell

But now it sits there, taunting him, like a bright, red beacon of pain that he can’t escape even when he closes his eyes. It sears against his eyelids, a harsh reminder of what he’d had. What he’d foolishly thought he could hold onto forever.

“We should get rid of the piano,” he slurs, gentle fingers on his cheek, tilting his head until he’s looking at Margo and not the malevolent reminder of another thing—person he’s lost. “It’s all out of tune anyway.”

“Did something happen with Quentin? You haven’t stopped drinking since you walked in, and I saw you take way too many of those pills off Josh’s table when he wasn’t looking.” She’s drifting in and out of focus, her beautiful brown eyes blurring and sharpening right in front of him, like someone keeps messing with the display dial of his life. _Can you please turn the drama to ‘low’ or even ‘off;’ that would be great thanks._

“You mean Professor Coldwater,” Eliot says, closing his eyes as a wave of pain, regret, sadness, whatever, crests in his chest. He pops another pill in his mouth, chasing it with a chug of vodka from the bottle he’s clutching. Josh said these were happy pills, but clearly, they are not working. Maybe he’d accidently given Eliot the sad-sack pills. “That’s who he is, you know. Who he always will be.” He opens his eyes and stares into Margo’s face, “He broke it off. Which is fine. Just like you said. It couldn’t go on forever. And let’s be real. Who would throw away their career for some dumb alcoholic hick with a pretty face and a big dick who’s good for nothing but sucking cock? I guess Dad was right.” He chuckles humorlessly and takes another drink.“But hey. At least I didn’t leave any dead bodies behind this time.”

For a moment Margo is vivid and clear, just long enough for him to see something burn behind her eyes, her mouth snapping into a taut line. Then she goes all fuzzy again, leaning forward to wrap her arms around him and he sets his chin on her shoulder, staring at the piano against the stairs.

She’s talking to him, her voice soft and sharp all at once, but the words aren’t registering, are lost forever in the dark hallways of his mind, where he’s stumbling, running into walls. _This isn’t right_ , he thinks, he should turn back, but he’s searching for something, and it’s so _close_ , so _important_ and if he can just _get to it_ everything will make sense again. He’d had it, had held it right in his hands. But he’s pressing along the walkway, and a vicious hum rings in his ears as he realizes that whatever he thought he had, it’s gone. Slipped right through his fingers. He’ll never get it back.

That’s his last thought as he finishes off the vodka with another big swallow, as he’s lost to blessed infinity under bright lights, a disjointed piano refrain repeating in his head.

~~~

_Quentin_

Quentin lays in the dark in Julia’s bedroom, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, staring at the ceiling. He’d decided to sleep here tonight; if he’d gone back to campus he would’ve gone straight to the Cottage.

He’s still not sure he shouldn’t. The only thing keeping him in Julia’s apartment tonight is the very real possibility that Eliot will want nothing to do with him. That it’ll be too little, too late.

He unlocks his phone again, his eyes briefly closing against the bright light of his phone screen. No new messages, calls, nothing—he’d texted Eliot several times, and had gotten nothing back. _Which shouldn’t be a surprise_ , he tells himself. Eliot had told him he loved him, said those words that Quentin got the impression he did not throw around carelessly, and Quentin had—fucking brushed it off. Pushed him away. Again.

He sits up, turning on the bedside lamp. It’s nearing 3AM, but he’s nowhere near sleep. He can’t shake the feeling that he _shouldn’t be here_ , he needs to—

The thought is lost as he feels his phone vibrate in his hand. His heart jumps as he looks down and sees that it’s not Eliot calling him—but Penny.

Why the fuck would Penny be calling him at three in the morning? He answers it with a quick, “Hello?”

There’s silence for a moment, and then Penny’s gruff voice. “Quentin.” He pauses again, and Quentin’s heart seizes. “Eliot’s been brought into the infirmary. He passed out at the Cottage. He’ll be okay, but… I thought you’d want to know.”

A feminine voice rings in his ears. _Wow. Death just follows you everywhere, doesn’t it?_

He stares at the wall of Julia’s bedroom, his mouth going dry; it’s as if a bucket of ice water has been tossed over his head. _This can’t be happening._ He looks around the room, half-expecting to be standing outside the fountain, staring at an Alice that isn’t really Alice as she slowly walks towards him.

“Wh—What?” he says. “What the fuck happened?”

He hears Penny sigh over the line as he sits, motionless and full of dread. “He drank—took too much. They barely got him here in time.”

Something snaps inside Quentin, and suddenly he’s moving. _You fucking idiot. Go to Brakebills like you should have hours ago._ He’s on his feet, jamming them into his shoes as he stumbles through the dark apartment.

“He’s in the clinic?” He grabs his jacket off the back of the living room couch and passing through the front door.

“Yeah, Lipson is in with him now.”

“Fuck.” _You’re such a god damned fool._ He’s in the hallway, pressing the button for the elevator. _Fucking come on_. “You said he’ll be okay?”

Penny pauses _again_ , what the fuck. “Yeah. Look, I don’t—”

“I’m on my way,” Quentin says firmly. He ends the call and steps into the elevator, ignoring the feminine laugh echoing in his head.

~~~

He makes it back to campus in record time, nearly sprinting the dark streets to the portal and across campus to the infirmary. When the clinic is occupied, the buildings large floor-to-ceiling windows are spelled so outsiders can’t view in, and he nearly stumbles at the sight of the greyed out walls of the infirmary. He flings open the front door, striding in.

“Where’s—”

He’s stopped in his tracks by a hand pushing firmly on his chest, and he startles, blinking down into the large, angry eyes of Margo Hanson. He swallows, involuntarily taking a step back at the fury raging before him.

“Where the _fuck_ do you think you’re going?” She stares at him, unblinking, and he can practically see nails shooting out of her eyes, feel them drilling directly into his heart. He knows he deserves every single one of them.

“To see Eliot,” he says, looking above her head, at the hallway behind Margo that leads to the triage rooms.

“No,” she snaps, drawing Quentin’s attention back to her. She steps closer, and he doesn’t back up this time. He’s not leaving until he sees Eliot, makes sure he’s okay with his own eyes. Even if Eliot never wants to see him again. Even if he has to go through Margo to do it.

Something that he may very well have to do, or try, he realizes, as he stares down at all 5’2” of her, nostrils flaring, fists clenched at her sides. Her face is tear-stained, dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and she’s barefoot. Quentin thinks her anger must be the only thing keeping her upright as she inhales a tight breath.

“You don’t get to see him,” she says, her entire frame practically vibrating with rage. “You don’t get to _see_ him or ever fucking _talk_ to him _ever again_.”

Quentin takes a step back. It feels like the ceiling is caving in on him, debris hitting him from all directions. _She’s right._ He doesn’t deserve anything from Eliot. He should just stand still and let the rocks bury him, pummel every last breath out of his body. But he has to try.

“Margo—”

“What the _fuck_ have you been playing at all these months?” She’s practically snarling, advancing on him until he can feel her breath over his face. He stands still, meeting her gaze, knowing he’s earned every word.

“With your fucking late night phone calls and constant goddamn texting? Sneaking into the Cottage like it’s the Forbidden Forest and Eliot’s dick is a unicorn? Going away on a motherfucking _holiday_ like you’re in a goddamned Christmas movie? Sorry Quentin, but no one ODs on the Hallmark channel.” She huffs through her nose, her lower lip quivering in a way that breaks off another chunk of Quentin’s heart.

Tears spring to his eyes as he says, “Margo, I—”

“And do _not_ ,” she roars, and Quentin’s mouth snaps shut as he blinks up at the ceiling, “don’t even fucking _try_ to tell me you didn’t know. That he was in _love_ with you.” Her voice cracks and she whirls away, one hand to her forehead. Her words ring in Quentin’s mind, and he inhales a shattered breath as she turns back to him.

“Do you even have any idea what you fucking threw away? And for what? Your fucking depressing ass dorm room where you jerk off and cry? Eliot _fucking_ Waugh doesn’t _love_ just anybody, _Quentin_.” Her voice breaks on his name, tears fully streaming down her cheeks. “He almost _died_ he’s so goddamn in love with you.”

“I didn’t—” Quentin whispers, “I—I love him.” He meets her gaze, watching as her eyes fall shut and she shakes her head. “I thought I was protecting him.”

“Then you’re a fucking moron,” she says, yells really. “The only person Eliot needs protecting from is _you_.” Holding his gaze, she walks forward until she’s just a foot in front of him. “You’re damned lucky he’s alive,” she bites out through clenched teeth. “Or else you’d be drinking through your dick for the rest of your life. Next time you decide you want to fuck a student, pick a psychic so he can’t say he didn’t see what was coming.”

She turns and strides away, down the hall to where Quentin assumes Eliot is. He stands there, covered in the metaphorical blood and gore he always knew Margo would tear out of him one day. He inhales once, twice, and then moves to follow her. He’s blocked by someone else stepping into his way.

“Quentin,” Henry Fogg says as Quentin slowly looks up into the face of the dean. “My office. _Right now_.”

~~~

tbc in Chapter 13: Sections 8.5 - 8.6 - Behavioral Interventions and Disciplinary Actions


	13. Sections 8.5 - 8.6 - Behavioral Interventions and Disciplinary Actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge warning for suicidal thoughts/idelation in this chapter. Huge. 
> 
> Mood board was created by the incredible person [TheAudity](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity).

_Quentin_

_Now_

Fogg doesn’t exactly drag him by the scruff into his office, but it’s damn close. Quentin was about to physically move Henry out of his way when Penny’s arm on his shoulder stopped him. He’d glared at Penny, and then looked over to see Pearl standing in the clinic doorway, the expression on her face showing she was none too pleased to be dragged out of her bed at 3AM. He immediately felt contrite, his adrenaline leaving him as he sagged back on his heels.

“Quentin, please,” Penny said. “Let him rest.”

Quentin had grudgingly agreed and as he walked out of the clinic, had taken one last look at the hallway to the patient rooms. Eleanor and Margo were standing there, watching him leave, Margo with her arms crossed and her mouth set in a defiant line.

Fogg sat Quentin in the hall outside his office while he, Penny, and Pearl had a pow-wow inside. Fogg had silencing wards set, so Quentin couldn’t hear a damn thing.

He stood out there for maybe three minutes before deciding _fuck it_ , and started marching right back to the clinic. He could get fired in the morning, he needed to see Eliot _now_. Penny had blipped in front of him when he was halfway across the lawn, gripping his arm so tightly it almost cut off his circulation.

“I am trying to save you _and_ your boyfriend’s asses and you are _not_ helping me,” he’d told Quentin, before traveling them right back outside Henry’s office.

“Stay here!” he’d barked at Quentin, before disappearing back inside. Quentin spent the next twenty minutes pacing up and down the hallway, thinking about Eliot in that fucking hospital bed. It felt like an eternity before Penny finally slammed open the door and pulled Quentin inside.

Now he’s standing in Henry’s office. Henry, who is, of course, in a fucking suit at 3AM. He must sleep in the goddamn thing. Quentin runs a hand through his hair, looking out the window, at the clinic in the distance.

He’s itching to leave, jump out that fucking window and sprint across the Sea until he’s able to see Eliot with his own eyes. Watch the rise and fall of his chest, feel his breath against Quentin’s skin, the _thump-thump-thump_ of his pulse against Quentin’s fingertips.

“Quentin, please sit down.” Henry sighs and takes his seat behind his desk.

“I”m not going to fucking _sit down_ , Henry. You have to let me go back, I _need_ to _see_ him.”

“No. You seeing him is what got you into this… mess in the first place.”

Quentin snorts, running his hands through his hair. He can feel Penny and Pearl’s eyes on him, and he glances at Penny. His eyes are tight, worried, his mouth set in a thin line. Pearl’s face is much the same, although she’s alternating between looking at Quentin and flat out glaring at Penny. With the way her arms are crossed and how she’s leaning away from him, it looks like Quentin’s relationship—and probably his career—aren’t the only things in tatters.

 _Relationship_. What the fuck has he done.

He whirls on Henry, who’s sitting behind his fancy fucking desk, just like he’s done for the past twelve years. The Dean of Brakebills, the last stop on the road to ruin for too many magicians.

 _God_. Quentin’s blood is at a slow simmer, threatening to rise to a full boil. While he knows, he _knows_ it’s no one’s fault but his own, the sight of Henry behind his desk like it’s a staff meeting on a Tuesday afternoon makes him want to scream, or punch in that damn grandfather clock he’d mended for Henry ages ago. And maybe for Henry, it is just another fucking day. Oh look, another crisis on campus, time to call in the clean-up crew and destroy the evidence before anyone realizes how messed up this school really is.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re fully capable of sweeping this under the rug just like you do with every other _shitty, fucked up_ thing that happens on this campus. After all the bodies you’ve hidden, dealing with a teacher fucking a student should be a piece of cake.” It feels good, not to give a fuck about his job anymore. Even the little voice in his head has quieted down. It’s been whispering to him ever since his conversation with Penny—s _low down, don’t do something you’ll regret—_ but now there’s nothing but a tight silence in his mind, his sole focus the man laying in a hospital bed across campus.

Henry’s jaw tightens, and he inhales slowly, like he’s silently counting to ten in his own head. When he speaks, his voice is firm. Hard.

“You didn’t just _fuck_ a student, though, did you, Quentin? If that was all it was, then sure, I could ‘deal with that’ easy enough. But that student _almost died_.”

Quentin’s eyes close, and he drops down into the chair in front of Henry’s desk. _Shit._ All of the fight drains out of him, leaving only despair in its wake. He can’t—he can’t fucking believe he’s here. _Again_. And at the same time, he can. He knew. He knew with every fucking choice he made, this is where it would all end. With another dead body on his hands.

But Eliot’s alive. He’s _alive_. He hates Quentin, but he’s fucking _alive_ to hate him.

He breathes through the sting of tears, swallows hard. “You _have_ to let me _see_ him,” he says again. “Please.”

“He will be fine,” Henry says, and Quentin can hear Penny shuffling behind him, pacing. “He was found in time, and he’ll be back in class by next week.”

At that, Quentin's eyes fly open, almost afraid to believe what he was hearing.

“He’ll be back in class? You won’t… _do_ anything to him? Because this was _all me_ , Henry. He had _nothing_ to do with it, I was the one that started it all, and he just—he didn’t—”

Henry chuckles. “I very much doubt that anyone can make Eliot Waugh do anything he doesn’t want to do. And no, we won’t be… discipling him. In that way. His time here at Brakebills has been troubled enough, and he is a very talented magician.” Henry clears his throat. “Penny has agreed to be responsible for Eliot for the remainder of his time on campus.”

The relief hits Quentin so hard it makes his body sag in the chair. Eliot had nearly died because of him. And if he’d had it all taken away, magic, Brakebills… there’s no way Quentin could live with himself. He’s already straddling that line, tiptoeing down it the same way he has every fucking day of his life.

He turns and looks at Penny over his shoulder, meeting his eyes. Penny’s arms are crossed, and he meets Quentin’s gaze. Quentin tries to communicate his silent thanks as best he can, and Penny’s expression softens slightly as he gives Quentin a short nod. As Quentin turns back to Henry, he can see Pearl’s tight expression as she looks between Quentin and Penny.

Henry clears his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t do the same for you, Quentin.”

_Here it comes._

“There’s no mistaking your brilliance. You’re an amazing magician. But your behavior this term—cancelling classes, your complete disregard for the professional dress code, the drinking—”

Quentin hears Penny snort behind him. “You’re gonna lecture him on drinking, Henry?”

Henry glares up at Penny, and then turns back to Quentin. “This latest indiscretion—I can’t push it aside. I could send you to Brakebills South with Maykovsky—”

“No,” Quentin says immediately. _Fuck no_.

“—but I think that would do more harm than good. I know this year has been a… difficult one for you. I wish I could have done more for you.” He pauses, clears his throat.

Quentin stares at the wall as he reaches in his pocket, wraps his fingers are the cool metal of the pocket watch that he’s carried with him for the past day.

“I’m sorry Quentin, but—you’re fired.”

Quentin exhales slowly, rubbing his thumb over the glass surface of the watch. He waits for his stomach to drop, pulse to speed up, heart to beat out of his chest, but just like before when Penny had told him he knew about Eliot, none of that happens. There’s only a warm, swirling sensation of sweet relief cascading down the back of his neck, his shoulders, his chest—that it’s all over. _Really_ over. His career, his relationship… and one of those things matters so much more than the other.

“This is a mistake, Henry,” Penny says.

“You’ve made your opinion abundantly clear, _William_ ,” Henry says sharply. “You still never answered my question about how long you knew about this.”

“I’d like to know as well,” Pearl says. “It would certainly explain a few things.”

Penny rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, and Quentin quickly speaks up, sensing that whatever Penny is about to say may do more harm than good. “Penny found out tonight, just like all of you. No one knew,” he tells Henry.

“Except Margo Hanson,” Henry snaps.

Quentin manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes as he says, “Except Margo. No one else. Now you’ve done what you have to do—please just let me go see him, Henry. Just for a few minutes.”

“No,” Henry says. “You are no longer allowed on this campus. Penny will escort you back to your room to gather your things, and then you are barred from campus. He will collect your alumni key.” Henry looks down at his desk, and then back to Quentin, his expression softening slightly. “Quentin, I—”

“Save it,” Quentin says, standing up. “I don’t want to hear it.” Then he turns on his heel and strides out the door, Penny right on his heels. As soon as they exit the building, Quentin pulls Penny into the dark shadows by the side wall.

“Penny,” he says, desperate. “Please take me to see Eliot. I _can’t_ leave here without seeing him.”

Penny sighs, shaking his head. “Quentin, man, I don’t think he wants to see you. Plus his pit bull will probably maul you on sight; she barely let Lipson near him.”

“Please,” Quentin says, his voice cracking. “I need to know he’s okay. I have to—” He inhales a shaky breath. “I have to tell him.” _What I should have told him last night._ He stares at Penny, blinking to keep the tears at bay.

Penny groans, running a hand down his face, looking up to the heavens like he wishes it would swallow him up. “Fine. You get five minutes. And we’re going in the back way. Wait here.” Then he disappears.

Quentin sags against the wall of the Administrative Building, wishing he had a cigarette. Or three. He pulls out his phone to text Julia, remembers it’s 3AM, and then puts it back in his pocket. Then he pulls it back out because he’ll be going back there anyway since he just lost his room at Brakebills and god knows he has nowhere else to go and it looks like that con list he made ages ago will be accurate and he is going to die on the sidewalk—

He startles when Penny appears in front of him. “Okay,” he says, “he’s awake. Margo is with him, and I am _not_ getting in the middle of that. So like, good luck.” Quentin nods and grabs Penny’s arm. Penny gives him one final glare— “Five minutes. Okay?” Then Quentin feels that weird tug in his belly that always accompanies traveling with Penny, and he’s suddenly standing in one of the hallways of the clinic.

He blinks rapidly, orienting himself—the building is eerily silent, the hallways darkened with enough low lighting to see where you’re going. They’re standing next to one of the patient rooms, the door cracked open. Penny gestures to it, and Quentin nods. Holding his heart in one hand, he raises the other and gently knocks, pushing it open.

Eliot is reclined in the bed, the beige blanket pulled up to his bare chest. He has an IV set in one arm, hooked up to a bag full of clear fluid. Quentin’s stomach drops as he takes in Eliot’s pale face, dark circles under his eyes, and his disheveled hair. What stings the most, what sends a shard of misery straight through his sternum, impaling his heart through and through, is the empty look in Eliot’s eyes when they shift over to Quentin.

Just a day ago, Eliot had walked into the Observatory Tower, his eyes so full of life and exhilaration, a huge smile splitting his face when he saw Quentin. Now, Quentin can see a mask Eliot hadn’t worn in months—the practiced indifference that Eliot donned most of his days. Quentin couldn’t remember the last time he saw it aimed at him.

“Eliot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m so—”

“That’s close enough,” Margo says, stepping firmly between Quentin and Eliot. “Did you not get the fucking message—”

“Margo, please,” Quentin interrupts loudly, never taking his gaze off Eliot. “Henry fired me.”

Margo’s face falls for a second, before her hard expression returns. “That’s not—”

“Bambi.” Eliot’s voice is weak, hardly more than a whisper. “It’s okay. Give us a few minutes.”

Margo stares hard at Quentin for another second, before turning and glancing at Eliot. He gives her a small nod, and she sighs, turning back to Quentin. “If I hear even a sniffle out of him, you’ll be using your dick as a straw to drink though, _Quentin_.” Then she turns on her heel and marches to the hallway. Quentin watches her go, his eyes wide.

He steps up to the side of Eliot’s bed, sinking into the chair Margo had been sitting in. Eliot glances over at him, then looks at the blank wall across from his bed. His hand is resting on the sheets, and as Quentin reaches for it, Eliot moves it away. Quentin looks down at his feet and swallows hard.

“El, I’m so sorry.” The words are so small in the large room, so inadequate to the amount of remorse coursing through his veins. “Are you okay?”

Eliot chuckles sharply, then winces, placing one hand on his forehead. “Lipson says I will be,” he says, Quentin’s heart sinking down to his feet. “It feels like there’s a Nickelback concert happening in the back of my skull, but I’ll survive.” His hand drops back down to the bedside, and he looks meaningfully at up Quentin. “Physically.” The knife just keeps twisting in Quentin’s heart as Eliot looks down at his hands. “I, uh, didn’t mean for this to happen. Obviously. But Shakespeare was right. _Thy drugs are quick_.”

Quentin almost laughs at the absurdity of Eliot quoting Shakespeare right now, after almost dying. Then he nearly stumbles as the thought runs over and over again in his mind, pummeling him with the truth. _Eliot almost died_.

A memory pops up in Quentin’s brain, of Eliot whispering _So long as men can breathe or eyes can see_ in his ear, so vivid he can almost feel the warmth of breath against his skin. _He’ll never whisper anything to you ever again._ Forcing himself to focus, he looks down at Eliot. “I didn’t—”

“Mean for me to drink myself into the hospital?” Eliot’s voice is raspy, and he swallows thickly, licking his dry lips. “Neither did I. But shit happens.” There’s silence for a moment while Quentin tries to gather his thoughts, pull out the perfect phrase to fucking fix this, but all he can see is Eliot, pale and withdrawn in the infirmary, and his mind is a large, blank canvas. The perfect words don’t exist.

“Sorry you got fired. Margo told me Fogg heard…” Eliot looks down at his hand, at the needle stuck in his arm. _In another world, he’s dead right now._ The thought makes Quentin sink deeper into the chair, his throat tightening. Eliot takes a breath and continues, “Guess you should have cut the cord a little sooner. You didn’t have to come say goodbye. You already did that earlier.” His tone is dull, lifeless, his eyes glassy as he stares across the room. “Maybe you can look me up after they kick me out. I won’t remember you, so you can do the whole thing all over again if you want.”

Quentin’s eyes close at the bitterness in Eliot’s voice, the hurt emanating off him. “No,” he says. “You’re not getting kicked out. They’re not taking your memories.”

“One less thing for you to feel guilty about,” Eliot says, his head falling back against the pillow. Quentin can see the relief play over his face as he takes a deep breath. Still not looking at Quentin, he says, “Well, you have your confirmation that I’m not dead. Don’t worry, this was going to happen sooner or later. It’s not your fault. You can go now.”

“No,” Quentin says, suddenly so tired and so fucking furious. At Eliot, at Henry, at the entire world… but mostly at himself. “God. This _is_ my fault. Everyone tells me that all the shit I went through wasn’t on me, that I did what I had to do, and yeah, everything with Alice, maybe it’s true. But the past five years—the drinking and just, fucking—it’s all—God—such fucking bullshit.” He stands up, turning away from Eliot and running a hand through his hair. He turns back to Eliot, who is now watching him, clearly exhausted but a curious look in his eye.

“I’m a fucking asshole,” he tells Eliot. “A complete idiot. I love you, Eliot.” Eliot’s eyes widen at Quentin’s words, and he quickly looks away. Quentin presses on, “So much. I should’ve told you,” he says, his voice cracking as fresh tears swell up his throat. He takes a step closer to Eliot’s bed, and Eliot hesitantly looks at him, meets his gaze. “At the cabin. Those days after here at school. At Julia’s. I thought about it so many times, but I—” he sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “I was too scared. And I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.” Eliot stares back at him, and Quentin watches his throat bob as he swallows. God, Eliot is a force of nature on his worst day, but right now he seems so beaten down it’s like Quentin is looking at a different person.

“In the tower,” Quentin says, sitting back down in the chair next to Eliot’s bed, scooching it closer, “I thought I was protecting you. By not telling you that I love you. That I started falling in love with you the moment you walked into my classroom. That the second you looked at me, _really_ looked at me, I was gone. I didn’t stand a fucking chance. That I’ve loved you since the first time you stepped into my class. That I think about you all the time. That being with you at the cabin only made me want you, _love you,_ more. That I want a future with you. That I’d give up my job, where I live, _anything_ if it meant I got to keep you.” He’s leaning forward, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “Eliot, I’m so sorry. I can’t go back and change what I did, and I know I have a lot—a lot of problems. That I need to work through. And I will, I want—I want to be better. I want to do that for you. With you.” He slowly reaches over and grazes his fingers over the back of Eliot’s hand. Eliot’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t reach for Quentin’s palm, or turn his hand so Quentin can grab his. Quentin withdraws his hand, clasps them together in his lap.

He did it. Said the words that had seemed so terrifying for weeks. Now that they’re out there, floating in between them, solid and powerful, Quentin doesn’t know what he was so fucking afraid of. He’s lost his job, his home, and none of that is anywhere even remotely near as terrifying as the possibility of losing Eliot. A possibility that is becoming more and more real by the second.

“Quentin, I—I don’t know if we—if I can do that.” Eliot inhales a shaky breath, and closes his eyes tightly, a few tears escaping down his cheek. “I get you were doing what you thought was best, and maybe you protected me from Fogg, but—” he opens his eyes, staring into Quentin’s face, into his soul. “You broke my heart.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he wipes the tears off his cheeks. “And not even eight hours later, I wind up in here.” He lifts a hand, gesturing to the room around them. “You’re not the only one with problems, Q. And I don’t think we can fix them together.” He looks down at Quentin’s clasped hands, and then back to Quentin’s face. “I love you. More than I should right now. But I’m really fucking tired. Maybe we should take some time. To figure our shit out on our own.”

 _You broke my heart._ The words echo in Quentin’s brain, bounce around until they settle in, right next to _You can’t save me_. He should be used to this feeling, this utter devastation that settles inside his torso, swirling around his heart and filling up his belly. But the pain searing through his veins right now is just as acute as what he felt the day Alice died. Or when his Dad died. Someone he loves is in pain. And this time, there’s no magical circumstance or incurable illness to blame. This is all him.

Quentin’s face crumples and he hangs his head down, trying to tamp down his emotions. “Eliot, I—” He stops when cold fingers wrap around his palm, tugging his hand up onto the side of the bed. He looks up and meets Eliot’s red-rimmed eyes, cloudy and sad. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know,” Eliot says. “So am I.”

“Quentin.” Penny’s voice is quiet as he opens the door. “Time to go.”

Margo pushes through behind him, coming to stand next to Quentin’s chair. She doesn’t say a word; the get-the-fuck-out look on her face is loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

Quentin is still looking at Eliot through tear-filled eyes, and he squeezes Eliot’s palm. _This can’t be the end._ “I love you,” Quentin whispers. “This can’t be—”

“Time’s up.” Margo’s voice cuts through him, and Quentin closes his eyes as Eliot pulls his hand away from Quentin’s. “You got your last look. I hope it was a good one. It’ll need to last you a long fucking time.”

For a second, Quentin hates her. It lights up his body like a pinball machine, bright and loud, and then instantly fades as Quentin’s hand falls into his lap. _This isn’t her fault_. Fuck, if someone treated Julia like he had Eliot, he’d be just as murderous as Margo. He deserves every inch of her derision and more.

Quentin stands up slowly, unable to take his eyes off Eliot. _This is it; this is all you get._ Even under the harsh clinic lights, his face so pale and withdrawn, he’s beautiful. Quentin bites on his lower lip to stop it from quivering as Eliot gives him a sad smile. Quentin has just lowered his head and is turning away when he hears Eliot whisper, so softly he almost misses it, “ _Eyes, look your last_.” Margo’s already stepping closer to the bed, to the chair Quentin just vacated when it really hits Quentin that he may never see Eliot again. And if he does, it’ll never be the same. Quentin will just be someone Eliot used to know.

He squeezes his eyes shut as he shuffles towards Penny, trying to block out the alarms blaring in his ears, the anxious pinpricks along his limbs. He’s spent the past few months in a freefall, waiting to hit bottom, and this is it. _This is what it feels like_ , he thinks.

Maybe he didn’t physically hand Eliot the liquor or push the pills into his hand, but he’s just as responsible for Eliot’s near-death as he is Alice’s. The knowledge that someone he loves so much is suffering because of him, _again_ , spawns an entirely different kind of ache in his heart. It’s different from when Alice or his dad died. The pain from losing them had been cataclysmic, a vicious sting that he still feels to this day. This is throbbing, all-encompassing, permanent, settling deep into his bones. He will never take another step without feeling the hurt echo through every limb. When he’d destroyed Alice’s niffin box, he’d thought _This is the worst it will ever be._

He was wrong.

He can’t resist taking one last look over his shoulder as he leaves. Margo is sitting down in the chair he just vacated, reaching to grab Eliot’s hand. Eliot isn’t looking at her, though—he’s watching Quentin. For a second their eyes meet, and Quentin’s heart seizes when he sees it. The love, desperation, and painful regret he’s been searching for since he walked in the room. Then, as fast as it appeared, it’s gone, as Eliot closes his eyes, his face crumpling as Margo reaches for him.

“Q,” Penny says, gently taking Quentin’s arm. “We gotta go, man.”

~~~

Penny travels Quentin back to his room, where he tells him he can sleep and get his shit in the morning, but Quentin just shakes his head and grabs his bag. It’s still packed from his trip to Philly, and besides his pictures, the only other thing he needs on campus wants nothing to do with him.

It’s nearing 5AM when they pop into the hallway outside Julia’s apartment. Quentin hesitates, as he never did text Julia. For all she knows, he’s still asleep in the guest room.

“They know we’re coming,” Penny says. “I talked to them.”

The door opens without them knocking, and Quentin finds himself in a small, firm embrace, the scent of Julia, wildflowers and apples, surrounding him. She pulls him inside and he takes one step, two, and then he’s sobbing into her shoulder. He doesn’t remember going into the guest room, but suddenly he’s there, sitting against the headboard, just like he had when he’d told Eliot all about his past. Only now Julia is the one curled up next to him, one of his hands clasped firmly between hers.

“I told him,” Quentin chokes out. “That I love him. That I’m sorry.” He looks at Julia’s wide brown eyes, that same fucking worried look on her face that’s been there for the past five fucking years. “He said it didn’t matter. That we can’t—he can’t—”

“Shhh,” Julia says. “You don’t have to talk about it if—”

“He’s right,” Quentin breaks in. “I’ve had enough therapy to know you can’t—like, you can’t fix yourself for someone else. You have to do it for you, or whatever. And I should do this by myself, but—”

“You’re not by yourself,” Julia says softly. “You never have been, Q. Kady and I—even Penny—have always been here. You just had to ask.”

Quentin nods, wiping at his eyes. Christ, how many tears can the human body hold? “I’m sorry. That it took me so long.” The tears in Julia’s eyes just make his heart heavier. All he can see is Eliot, fragile and delicate, so full of sadness at Quentin’s hands. “I’m so fucking in love with him, Julia. I don’t know how I’m going to do this. Without him.”

Soft fingers brush his hair back from his face, behind his ear. “The same way you do everything else. One foot in front of the other.”

Quentin meets her gaze, and that wave of gratitude he feels every time she saves his ass swells up again. She’s right, he knows. But right now his feet are made of cement blocks, and the entire world is strapped to his back.

He sighs, leaning his head back against the headboard. “You should go back to bed,” he says. “I already kept you up late last night. I’ll sleep in here.”

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight, you’re crazy.” She slips under the covers, laying on her side. Quentin presses his lips together, thinking about those weeks after Alice. How Julia spent more time sleeping in his room than hers, and the wards that would let her know if he was in physical distress. He hadn’t even known she’d put them up until she’d burst in one morning when he’d nicked himself shaving. He’s surprised she hasn’t made him drink some of the no-secret-cutting potion she’d nearly forced down his throat back then.

“I’m not going to do anything,” he says softly. He believes it, he thinks. “I at least need to shower. You can’t say you can’t smell me.”

She wrinkles her nose at him and huffs out a sigh. “Fine,” she says. “But come right back here.”

Quentin heads to the bathroom, clothes and toiletries in his hands. Kady and Penny are sitting on the couch, talking quietly, not even looking up as he passes through the room.

He’s on auto-pilot, turning on the water, stripping off his clothes. The water is warm, and he turns it up so it’s scorching. He presses his head against the wall, his skin turning red as the water cascades across it. It hurts, it burns, and he should feel the same way on the outside he does on the inside. He only knows it’s tears falling down his face because they’re not as hot as the water from the shower.

His life is completely different from what it was yesterday. Twenty-four hours ago, he had a job. A career. A _boyfriend_ , even if he was too fucked to realize it. And now he’s lost it all. Burned his bridges so thoroughly, he’s left the earth too unstable to even attempt repair.

It will take so much work to pick up the pieces. Change. Land somewhere new, make a different life. Find someone else that can make him feel like Eliot does. _Impossible_ , he thinks immediately. No such person exists. There is only Eliot, the sole solution to the problem of Quentin. The only key that can unlock the person hidden somewhere inside him, the one that can hold down a steady job without getting drunk or high daily. The one that can cook a meal on his own and doesn’t need someone to watch him to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill himself. The one that smiles and means it, that enjoys the warmth of the sun on his face and has friends that don’t grimace when his number shows up on their caller ID. The person Eliot saw when he looked at Quentin. The person Quentin has never really believed exists.

All he can see is Eliot’s face, and Quentin can almost feel his strong hands circling Quentin’s wrists. _Let me be strong for you_. _I love you_. Pain and regret wash over Quentin, searing through his heart as the hot water sears against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin chokes out between his sobs, to Eliot, to the empty bathroom, to no one, to everyone that he’s hurt in his lifetime. Most of all, to himself.

He thinks of Julia, lying down in the other room. Kady and Penny, probably talking about what the fuck to do with him after tonight. He’s a burden. To everyone he’s ever met.

He could stop. Right now. Tonight. He thinks of the razor he keeps in Julia’s bathroom, even though the blade is way too dull to actually cut anything. The pills he has in his bag. God, he’s a fucking magician, he doesn’t even need that shit. He could slice right though his skin, and watch all his problems bleed away. He opens his eyes and looks at the circular drain, presses his bare toe against it. It’s getting foggy in the bathroom, steam filling his mouth and nostrils. He flexes his fingers; it would just take a few movements, a sharp stab of pain… and then blissful silence. Forever.

 _That is a thought_ , he suddenly thinks. _That's not real. Julia loves me. Kady loves me. Penny tolerates me. Eliot loves… loved me. And I am not going to let them find my body in here._

He doesn’t want that. Even if Eliot never wants to see him again, even if he’s never going to teach again, he wants to be here. To be with Julia and Kady and god, even Penny. And Eliot… maybe someday Eliot can forgive him. He can do this. He can live his life. He has people that want to help him.

The first step is letting them.

~~~

_Eliot_

“I should get a _day_ , Bambi,” Eliot says, dramatically flopping back on his bed, a move he instantly regrets as the pounding in his head hits harder for a second. “A day of rest before you rail me.”

“You had your day in the fucking clinic,” she says, and he doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know her arms are crossed and nostrils are flaring at she stares down at him. “And you’re damned lucky you got that.” For a moment, all he can hear is Margo’s harsh breaths, and he mentally counts down in his head. Three—two—one— “What the _fuck_ , Eliot?”

He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Idly, he wonders how many nights Quentin stared at this same ceiling. If he’d ever felt as low as Eliot did right now. _Of course he fucking did._ His girlfriend died. And that same stab of regret that’s been driving into him since Quentin walked out of his room, out of his life, slices deep and sharp into his chest.

Most of that night, and the past two days, are great blank spots in his memory; one second he was leaning on Margo’s shoulder in the cottage, crying over a fucking piano, and the next he was blinking into the fluorescent lights of the clinic, a plastic tube down his throat. Apparently magic can only do so much and some manual intervention is required when you put enough poison into your body to knock out an elephant (Lipson _had_ to be exaggerating; his tolerance wasn’t that impressive.) Thankfully the tube had been removed shortly after he’d regained consciousness and a few other potions had been forced down his throat to clean out his system. It still hurts when he swallows, and Lipson says the fatigue should clear up in another day or so.

When Quentin had walked into his room, staring straight at Eliot, his puppy-dog eyes overflowing with regret and pain and fucking love, for a moment was right back in the tower. Spitting out the terrifying words that he’d been carrying around with him for weeks, and getting nothing but an ‘ _it doesn’t matter’_ in return.

It matters. _It fucking matters_.

“ _Eliot_. Are you awake? Or did you fucking OD again on the walk back from the clinic?” Margo kicks his foot that’s hanging off the edge of the bed.

“I’m here,” he says, shifting further up the bed so he can sit back against the headboard and wall. He glances up at Margo’s face, and he sees exactly what expects—firmly-wound, barely contained fury, fire and brimstone staring at him. But he can also see, in how her nails dig into her palms, the slight quiver of her chin, and the shine to her eyes, that she’s holding onto the rage so tightly so she doesn’t collapse.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, after a few moments of staring at each other. “I just wanted to not feel for a little while.”

“No fucking shit,” Margo says. “You almost stopped feeling forever, you fucking cockstain.”

Eliot nods, sighing. “I know I overindulged—”

“You fucking—” Margo looks to the ceiling, her hands going to her hair. She moves in a small circle, and then focuses on Eliot, pinning him down with her stare. “Do you even realize that you almost died, El? Your heart fucking _stopped_. The only reason you’re alive right now is because Todd brought that new traveler to the party and she got you to Lipson in time.” She sits down on the bed next to Eliot, turning to face him, drawing her legs up under her. “ _Tell me_ you fucking _understand_ that.”

Eliot’s eyes slip shut, and he swallows thickly. “I—uh, yeah. I get it.” He doesn’t get it. He knows he doesn’t get it because the anger that carried him through his entire conversation with Quentin has faded and now all he can think is that Quentin loves him and Quentin got fired because of him and Quentin said he would give up everything for him and Eliot turned him away and _holy shit_ he almost drank himself to death.

Memories he hasn’t thought of in years float up to the surface, his eyes stinging, and he can’t stop— _His father stumbling as he stands up from the table to get another beer, his dad’s palm landing hard against his face, the acrid smell of alcohol invading his nostrils as his dad’s loud voice booms in his ear—_

He’s pulled out of his stupor by a sharp pain in his arm. His eyes snap open and that pain hits him again and it’s a real, live pain caused by a real, live Margo punching him in the arm. Fat tears are rolling down her face, and another memory flashes in Eliot’s mind—of Julia doing the same thing to Quentin… god, just a week ago.

“You scared me so fucking much, you dumb bitch.” Margo dissolves into tears, and Eliot gently grabs her fists and reels her in, tucking her right underneath his chin, wrapping his arms around her as she sobs into his shoulder.

“All I could think—” she says, strangled and gasping, “—was when I got Todd to cut that goddamn piano in half. I told him I’d dropped a ring inside and I couldn’t find it.”

Eliot smirks into her hair, pressing a kiss against her scalp. “The same Todd that’s fucking the new traveler?”

“Fuck no, he’ll never get in her pants. She just saw a ticket to the best party on campus. But maybe now I owe him one,” Margo says, sniffling. Then she pulls back, looking up into Eliot’s eyes, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “But I pushed Quentin into your life. I knew it was a bad idea, I knew it wouldn’t end well, and I fucking enabled it. For _months_.”

“Bambi,” Eliot says, his heart splitting open even wider at the remorse in Margo’s eyes, “There’s nothing you could have done to stop me. And if you’d tried, it probably… would have made me want him more.” _Not possible,_ he thinks. _I still want him_. _I still love him_. He can’t stop thinking about Quentin’s face as he’d looked over his shoulder at Eliot, at the desperation and ruin in his eyes. He reaches into his pocket for his watch, finding nothing but air. _Where is he?_ Eliot wonders. _Is he okay?_

“Do you think he’s okay?” Eliot asks, before he realizes what he’s asking. And who he’s asking. He rushes on before Margo actually bites his head off. “He—He ended things because Professor Adiyodi found out. About us. He said if anyone else found out, they’d expel me—erase my memories. That it was too dangerous for us to keep seeing each other.” Eliot didn’t think it was possible, but Margo’s expression turns even darker, and for a moment he’s glad her speciality isn’t pyromancy, as he’s sure she would be shooting literal flames out of her eyes right now.

“Over my dead fucking body,” Margo says. “Fogg would have to reach up to take a piss by the time I’d be done with him.” She sits up, wiping her tear-stained cheeks. “Did he talk to you? Could they still try that shit?”

“I don’t think so,” Eliot says. “Fogg came by earlier, right before Lipson released me.” Eliot pauses, remembering how his stomach had dropped to the floor when the dean walked into his room at the clinic. “He said he was sorry for all the trauma I’ve gone through on campus… and I’m welcome to go back to class as soon as I’m ready. And that maybe I should be single for a while,” he says, sighing. He shrugs at Margo. “He has a point.”

“What a fucking dickhole,” Margo says. She frowns, and Eliot can see the gears turning in her head. Which is never a good sign. “So Quentin was trying to stop them from going all ‘Eternal Sunshine’ on you? And that’s why you took on a mission to suck down all the liquor in the Cottage?”

Eliot’s breath hitches. “I, uh. Told him I loved him.” Margo’s palm curls around his arm and she leans into his side. Eliot stares at the window next to the bed, the one he’d leaned out of that night when Quentin showed up drunk on the lawn. It feels like a million years ago. “And he—just—pushed me away. Said we always knew it was going to end.” He clears his throat, sliding his hand over the one Margo has wrapped around his arm. “And, I mean, he’s right. But I—uh, I guess I thought when it came down to it, his job… I guess I thought it wouldn’t matter. As much. As other things.”

“What did he say when he saw you in the clinic?”

“Everything he should have said earlier. But just. Too late?” He shifts on the bed, facing her, taking both her hands in his own. “Bambi, I—keep thinking about my dad.” At the confused look on her face, he presses on. “He just—was drunk. A lot. He’d pass out and I used to hope he’d never wake up. And I—” He breaks off, looking down at their hands. “I don’t want that to be. How I deal with my problems.” He takes in a deep breath, exhaling slowly before looking up to meet Margo’s gaze. “I think I need help.”

She squeezes both his hands before reaching up and pushing a hand through his hair and cupping his cheek. “Okay,” she says simply.

Eliot’s hand comes up to cover hers, and his eyes close at the overwhelming gratitude swelling up inside him. He would have died last year without Margo. He would have died two days ago without her. If he’d never known her, he’d be a hollow shell, incomplete, lacking. And the thought of losing that—of never knowing her...

He almost reaches into his pocket again for his pocket watch, the one he gave Quentin, that he’d thought he’d never want to look at again. He’d give anything to feel it’s heavy weight in his hand, to hear the sound of it ticking, a solid reminder that they’d had something real. He told Quentin they needed to figure out their shit on their own—and then maybe—after—

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts, and he pulls away from Margo, who gives him a questioning look. He shrugs, and calls out, “Come in.”

His eyes widen when Professor Adiyodi pushes open the door, frowning as he looks around. He’s dressed for teaching, slacks and a suit jacket over a button-down that is left open at the top. Eliot’s first thought is that he was wrong, he’s getting expelled, and Fogg is too much of a coward to do it himself. The second is that he wishes Adiyodi had dressed more casually; if he’s going to lose all his memories and who he is, he may as well be staring at a nice pair of tits while it happens.

Before he can say anything, Margo slides off the bed, placing herself firmly between the professor and Eliot. “If you think you’re taking anything out of his head, you got another thing coming.” She crosses her arms and juts her chin out, and Eliot can’t help the smile that forms on his face.

Adiyodi looks at her for a moment, and then rolls his eyes. “Physical kids. Always so dramatic,” he mutters. “Look, no one’s taking anything out of anyone’s head. I’m here to check on you.”

Eliot frowns, and Margo turns to him, giving him a look. “I’m—fine,” Eliot says. “Tired, but okay. I’m surprised they sent someone over to check.”

Penny snorts. “Yeah, well, you’re a special case.” He looks pointedly at Margo—“Can you give us a minute?”

Margo inhales deeply, and looks to Eliot, who nods. As she walks out, she turns to the professor— “If I come back in here and he’s forgotten _anything_ , so help me—”

“I know, I know,” Adyodi says. “I don’t have to be psychic to know you’ll cut something off or whatever. Just two minutes, and anything he doesn’t remember will be because he fucking drank it out of his head.” Margo shoots Eliot a look over her shoulder as the professor shuts the door, shaking his head. He looks down at Eliot and sighs. Eliot waits, bracing himself for whatever may come next...

“I'm your advisor. Until you graduate.”

….and that was not it. Eliot blinks at the professor, his mouth pulling down in confusion. “What does that mean? Like a mentor?”

“ _No_ ,” Adyodi says sharply. “Like I said, special case. It means you stay alive and out of trouble until you graduate, and I don’t kill you. Alright?”

Eliot frowns. “Okay…” He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, sure he should be asking questions, but no idea what those may be. He goes with, “You’re not a physical kid—uh, student? You’re a psychic—”

“Yeah, I’m fucking aware.” Adyodi shakes his head. “Just keep your head down. Until you graduate. Go to class, stop partying so hard, and for christ’s sake, keep your dick out of the faculty. Think you can manage that?”

Eliot nods slowly, turning the conversation over in his head. “So—what, I hit the limit on campus scandals and I get assigned, like, a keeper? Do I have to turn in my urine weekly?”

Adyodi grimaces, looking to the side. “I’m your advisor, _not_ your keeper. _Or_ your sponsor. Although you probably could use one of those,” he says, with a sigh. “It means I’ll be checking in on you. Making sure you’re okay, going to class. And the Cottage parties—put ‘em on hiatus. At least until the end of the year. You got me?” The frustration on Adiyodi’s face tells Eliot he is not joking, and Eliot realizes just how close he came to losing _everything_. He nods, looking away from the professor’s dark eyes.

“Well, the Illusionists have been waiting for their chance to take the reins on the campus party circuit. Pretentious bitches. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.” Sighing, he focuses back on Adiyodi. “So how’d you get so lucky?” Eliot asks. “Paying penance because you knew and didn’t tell Fogg?”

Adiyodi sighs. “No. Henry doesn’t know that I knew, and he’ll keep on thinking that, got it?” He looks pointedly at Eliot, who nods in understanding. He continues, “I volunteered. As a favor for Quentin. And his friends,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

At the mention of Quentin’s name, Eliot’s expression falls. “Oh.” He looks down at his hands, at the window, up at the professor. “How—How is he?” he asks, both hoping and dreading the answer.

Adiyodi looks at him for a moment, his hands in his pockets, like he’s evaluating Eliot. Then he huffs out a breath. “He’s shitty. But he’ll be okay. I think.” Eliot nods, glancing back over at the window.

“So, he, uh—”

“I am not doing this. You wanna talk to him, text him or call him or whatever weird ass communication you guys had when you were…” Penny gestures with his hands, and then rolls his eyes. “Come by my office once a week. Don’t make me come down here to find you. I’m the only reason you’re not out on your ass.” With that, he turns to go.

“Professor,” Eliot says as Adiyodi pulls open the door. He turns back to Eliot, waiting. “Thank you,” Eliot says simply. The professor nods once, and then walks out, closing the door behind him.

Eliot exhales hard, and then leans back against the headboard. He turns to his nightstand, where his phone has been charging. He hasn’t looked at it since that night. Unlocking it, he goes straight to his text messages. There are a few from random students wishing him well, way too many from Todd… and several from Quentin. Taking a deep breath, he opens Quentin’s thread.

_Quentin [1/9 11:29pm]_

_Eliot. I’m so sorry. I made a mistake. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me right now, but please give me a chance to talk to you._

_Quentin [1/9 11:42pm]_

_Please. I’m going to quit. I want to be with you. I really need to talk to you. I won’t go to Brakebills tonight unless I know you want me to, but please give me a chance._

_Quentin [1/10 12:04am]_

_Please._

_Quentin [1/10 12:39am]_

_I’m so sorry._

_Quentin [1/12 9:13am]_

_I know you don’t want to hear from me. I hope you’re okay. Penny told me you are, it’s just hard. Not talking to you. Seeing you. And I know that’s no one’s fault but mine. I’m sorry, again, I just want to tell you I’m going into a treatment center. Rehab, I guess. For magicians. Some place outside the city that Kady knows. I’m not sure how long I’ll be there. I know that you’re right. We need to… I need to figure my shit out. On my own. But I need you to know. I love you. I always will. I hope we can be in each other’s lives again. I understand if that’s not possible. But I will always want that._

_Quentin [1/12 9:16am]_

_I love you. I’ll try not to contact you again._

_Quentin [1/12 9:35am]_

_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_

_My love as deep; the more I give to thee,_

_The more I have, for both are infinite._

_Quentin [1/12 9:36am]_

_That was the last one, I swear._

“Fuck,” Eliot whispers as he reads it. And rereads it.

God. If he’d looked at his phone that night…

He squeezes his eyes shut and locks his phone. Then he unlocks it and reads them again. _I love you. I’m sorry._ Fucking Shakespeare… Quentin probably just googled it and picked the first thing he thought sounded good. Dramatic bitch.

And goddammit, it’s working. Seeing _I love you_ , in print, _twice_ , makes his heart ache and swell all at once. His fingers hover over the keyboard, as he contemplates what he could say. _I love you too? I miss you? I’m proud of you? Sorry our timing sucked? I’ll stay sober if you will? One last dick pic for the road?_

He sighs, and locks his phone again, setting it gently back on the nightstand. His head is still throbbing, and he gently lays back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The personal box of party favors is sitting right on top of his dresser, and his fingers twitch as he stares at it. Inside is his stash from Josh, spelled to stay fresh, and a small selection of pills, designed to take the edge off when he’s feeling… exactly like he is right now.

Moving slowly, he pushes up off the bed and walks over, lifting the lid. He inhales slightly, his eyes drifting shut. Sometimes the smell of weed can be nauseating, but right now, it’s a siren’s call, caressing his nose and throat. Weed can’t be that bad, right? You smoke too much, as long as you’re not driving or traveling or whatever, the worst that you get is a headache and an urge for potato chips and a nap.

With a sharp exhale, he closes the box. He’ll need to give it to Margo, or Todd, or someone. And all the booze downstairs… well, surely there’s a potion for that. Or he can just give it to the Illusionists for their parties; may as well make a few friends on his trip to sobriety.

 _Fuck_. Sobriety. For him, an impossible thing. He had his first drink at thirteen, behind the barn while his brother looked on and laughed when he spit out his first taste of beer. Once he discovered the world outside of Natty Light and Coors, his liver was never the same.

His fists clenched at his sides, he steps away and back to the bed, turning back to look at his phone. Quentin is doing it. He’s trying. Eliot has to try, too.

And maybe, someday, the timing won’t suck.

~~~

_Quentin_

“Here’s your room.”

Quentin steps into the small room on the second floor of the Shatner’s Recovery Center (Kady had told him it was named after “some famous secret Magician,” but hadn’t specified which one until they arrived, way to bury the fucking lede, Kady). Sunlight streams in through the sole window that Quentin’s sure is magicked to not open or break, casting light on the wooden floor. The place is a little nicer than what he expected—instead of cement floors there’s some kind of faux wood tile, and the simple furniture looks like it might actually be comfortable. His room has one bed right in the center, with a small nightstand next to it. A dresser sits against one wall, and an empty bookshelf next to it. A small door that he assumes leads to his closet is along the other.

“I get my own room?” he asks as he sets his bag on the bed, covered in a pleasant blue bedspread. He’d always had to share at other centers he’d stayed at.

“Yeah, we have a few singles open,” Chris says, hovering in the doorway. “Your own bathroom, too.” He points at the small door that Quentin thought was a closet. Quentin crosses over and opens it, and sure enough, there’s a sink, toilet, and a shower stall crowded into the bathroom.

“That’s… really nice,” he says, turning back to Chris, who gives him a small smile. Chris had checked Quentin in, doing a short interview and giving him a quick tour. He seems nice enough. But most staff at these places do, at first.

“Lunch is in an hour, in the cafeteria I showed you downstairs. We’ll do a full tour after; we have you and a couple other newbies. Then you’ll meet with a counselor and have an assessment, go over your daily schedule, that kind of thing.”

Quentin nods, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “A lot of magic here,” he comments. His skin is practically tingling with it.

“Yeah,” Chris says. “There are dozens of wards on the building, everything from planar compression spells to enlarge most rooms, to stop self-harm, disguise us from the non-magical public, ensure no one enters that shouldn’t. That kind of thing.”

“And to keep patients in?” Quentin asks. He remembers being younger, arguing with another counselor about checking out of the facility he was in just days before he took his exam to enter Brakebills.

“No,” Chris says, chuckling slightly. “No one is forced to be here, Quentin. Magician-funded facilities tend to work by our own set of rules, and we don’t want anyone here that doesn’t want to be. We hope you’re comfortable enough to stay until you have everything you need to be healthy once you’re ready to leave.” He straightens up, glancing down the hallway. “I’ll let you get settled. See you in an hour?”

Quentin nods, and Chris disappears, shutting the door behind him. Quentin stands up and walks over to the window, looking out at the grassy fields below. Not a bad view.

He hasn’t heard from Eliot since he’d left the clinic the night he got fired, two days ago. He’d sent Eliot a couple of texts that morning, before he’d left his phone with Julia. She’d hugged him so fiercely, promising to call and visit as soon as he wanted her to. Which was like, immediately. Kady had hugged him too, whispering, “You can do this,” before she let go.

Quentin has no idea who’s paying for this, or how. Kady had told him she called in a favor to get him here, and again he’s reminded of how much he owes his friends. How they’re counting on him to not fuck up.

He reaches into his bag, and pulls out the pocket watch that Eliot had given him in the tower. When he’d told Quentin he’d loved him. Quentin wraps his fingers around it, listens to the ticking in the silence of the room. He knows he shouldn’t bring anything valuable with him into a treatment center, but he couldn’t bear to be apart from it. He’s pretty sure there are probably anti-theft wards in here as well, but until he finds out, he’ll just have to hide it well.

He closes his eyes and thinks back to that first night in the observatory tower. Just months ago, even if it feels like years, when Eliot had smashed this watch, and they’d gotten their first taste of what it was like to connect. How his magic had consumed him, responding to Eliot’s in a way he’d never experienced before. It had felt so _right_ to be with Eliot in every way, magically, physically… emotionally.

_Like I helped it wake up. And remember what it was before._

Quentin swallows thickly, his throat burning with unshed tears. This is the first day of the rest of his life. He’s not sure how long he’s here for, but he’ll do whatever it takes. To figure out how to live his life like he wants to be here, and not like he’s paying a debt.

He wants to be that person again. The one who’d laid under Julia’s dining room table drawing maps of Fillory. The one who’d caused a distraction by setting a very small, insignificant fire that caused no _actual_ damage to the Treehouse while Kady snuck in and captured their flag. The one who Penny’s never even met. The one who Alice fell in love with. The one who told his dad all about actual magic and how it made him feel real for the first time in his life. The one that Eliot woke up, without even knowing he was doing it.

Most of all, he wants to remember what it was like to see the possibility in life. Like he had when he’d first learned magic exists. When he’d first looked into Alice’s blue eyes. And right now, as he sits in a small, spartan room in upstate New York, with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and the books in his bag, he feels that same delicate longing swell up in his chest that he’d felt the morning after he’d told Eliot about his past.

He doesn’t have to wonder this time. He knows it’s hope.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 14: Section 9.3 - Revisiting Basic Assumptions and Assessment Issues


	14. Section 9.3 - Revisiting Basic Assumptions and Assessment Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aiming to get the next update out on Tuesday, Feb 1.

_Quentin_

“How do _you_ think you’re doing, Quentin?”

Quentin exhales hard and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “I think—” he starts. And then he falters, furrowing his brow, pulling his legs up under him so he’s curled up, very pretzel-like in the chair. One corner of Dr. King’s mouth quirks up, and then smoothes back into the neutral line that has been present at all of his therapy sessions the past two weeks.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, adjusting his glasses on his face. “I was going to say I think I’m doing fine. But that would be a lie. So. Shitty. I guess.” He pulls a quarter out of his pocket and flips it over each knuckle of one hand, left to right and back again. He looks out the window, the late afternoon sun casting odd shadows across the office.

“You rarely speak in group. You haven’t been participating in any of the alternative therapy sessions.” Dr. King’s voice is calm, soothing, and they barely raise an eyebrow as he keeps passing the coin over his hand. They've gotten used to his fidgeting by now, allowing him to keep his hands busy as they talk.

“I don’t think drawing a serene lake is actually going to make me feel serene,” he mutters. The quarter drops into each indentation and then rolls over his knuckles, effortlessly. Left to right and back again. 

“In our first session, you talked for over an hour about Eliot and Julia and how hard you were going to work to be the man they deserve. Today, we’ve been here thirty minutes and this is the first time you’ve said a sentence longer than three words. The changes in your medications can—”

“I know,” Quentin interrupts, even though it’s been five years since he changed up his meds. But he remembers, from high school and college, the weariness and mood swings and brain zaps that came along with his body settling into whatever new cocktail he was swallowing daily. Hot tears sting at his eyelids, and he blinks rapidly, knowing he’s going to fail, again, at having completed a therapy session without crying. “It’s hard,” he whispers, palming the quarter. “To see the point. In trying.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Dr. King sighs. They close their notebook, and place it on their desk. “Julia visited yesterday?” At Quentin’s nod, they ask, “How’d it go?”

Quentin clears his throat, wiping at his eyes. Julia had visited for the second time yesterday since he’d checked in. “Good. She, uh. It was. Good. She was happy to see me. Brought me more books. Some snacks.” Quentin had never been at a facility that let you bring in any outside food, but they’d checked over the blueberry muffins Julia had tucked under her arm. Apparently they were deemed safe, as long as he kept them in his room. An intern spelled them to stay fresh; the wards meant Quentin couldn’t cast anything on his own. One of the alternative therapy activities the clinic offered was magical ‘exercise’ so magicians could cast spells under supervision. But Quentin hasn’t bothered.

Dr. King is right—on the first day, Quentin was gung-ho about magical therapy, until he realized it was a lot like regular therapy, just with a few extra potions and extracurriculars added on. The potions had gotten rid of the physical symptoms of withdrawal, so no body shakes or chills. The damage he’d done to his liver and lungs couldn’t be fixed, but otherwise his body was perfectly content to drink water and juice, and inhale only the stale clinic air.

His mind, though… that bitch was never going to be satisfied with plain ginger ale and cigarettes (which he couldn’t actually have here, anyway). When he wasn’t thinking about Eliot, he was thinking about the burn of bourbon down his throat, the blissful silence that hit after a pill dissolved on his tongue, or the hazy contentment as he inhaled off his pipe. It itched from within, made him want to claw at his joints and yank at his hair until it ripped from his scalp. He’d asked about potions, spells, anything for the cravings, but there was nothing. Nothing the clinic was willing to give an addict, anyway. Magic couldn’t help him here. He had to do it himself.

He thinks about the flask he’d carried with him at his mom’s funeral. He’d thrown it away the day before he came here, and he’s thinking now about the vodka that had been left in it. His tolerance is slowly chipping away; by now it probably wouldn’t take more than a few mouthfuls before he could feel that familiar weightlessness in his limbs, the light fog settling over his brain that pushed out all the bad thoughts. He can almost imagine it on his tongue now, the silky alkaline taste that skims over his taste buds…

“Quentin.”

He jerks his head up to see Dr. King focused on him. “S—Sorry,” he stutters, straightening up in the chair. “Um, it was good to see Julia. Nice. She brought me books.”

“Right,” they say, their eyes flickering to the floor, and then back up to Quentin. “And the dreams?”

Quentin inhales sharply, looking back at the window, at the fading sunlight. It gets dark so early this time of year, this far north. “They’re not as bad,” he lies. He can’t be this fucked up if he doesn’t actually _tell_ anyone about it, right? He starts flipping the quarter over his knuckles again. Left to right and back again.

His first night here he’d woken up screaming, the nightmares back in full force. After weeks of his body getting used to actual rest, he’s back to being tormented nightly, starting nearly as soon as he closes his eyes. He wasn’t prepared for the images of a completely human Alice standing over Eliot’s body, lying in his own vomit on the floor of the Cottage. _I don’t know what happened_ , she said as she looked at Quentin, her blue eyes wide and horrified. _He was so happy… and then he wasn’t._ And while he was watching, she burned up all over again, engulfed in a blue flame, lightning skittering all over her, reaching out to Eliot’s dead body.

He looks up at Dr. King and realizes he’s drifted off again, back into his own head. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, feeling something cold on his cheek. He puts his fingers to his face and finds it coated with tears. “I don’t think this is working.” He palms the quarter again, shoving it in his pocket.

“It’s been two weeks. The longest you’ve gone without drugs or alcohol in years. Even with potions, your body is still adjusting to the new medications, new routine… but even without all of that, how long do you think it will take to work through years of pain and guilt?” they ask, not unkindly. 

“Forever,” he sighs, trying not to whine but unable to stop the frustration from bleeding into his voice. “But I thought I’d at least—like, not feel like shit. All the time.” He pulls his sleeves of his hoodie over his hands, staring at the floor.

“Quentin,” Dr. King says, in that patient, soothing tone they have. He likes them; they’re nice and seem like they’re listening when he talks, but he wishes they’d just figure it out. They can’t help Quentin. No one can. “On your first day, you also told me you were a burden to everyone that was ‘stupid enough’ to love you. You’ve been through enough therapy to know it takes time. To work through your negative thoughts, and learn healthier ways to deal with the trauma in your past. Trauma that I don’t think you’ve ever dealt with.” They give Quentin a small smile, and a flicker of guilt flames up in his gut. He knows this is true. He _knows_ it. But his brain just automatically dumps it all at his feet. “I wish there was a potion or a spell for this, Quentin, I really do. There’s only a lot of hard work. But I can promise it’ll be worth the effort.” They pause, and then continue, “Do you still want that? To heal? No matter how much time or work it takes?” _The rest of your life_ , Quentin thinks.

What if he can’t heal? What if he’s meant to be this walking open wound forever, festering and rotting until his heart just—falls out, splatters on the ground, pedestrians strolling over it until there’s nothing left but a red stain on the sidewalk.

He swallows that thought— _it’s just a thought_ —it’s not real. When he meets Dr. King’s gaze, it’s Eliot’s face he’s thinking of, his hazel eyes as bright as the smile lighting up his face. Quentin forces his voice steady as he replies, “Yeah. I want that.” 

He doesn’t think they believe him. But they smile and pick up their notepad, asking Quentin, “Do you want to tell me what you dreamed about last night?”

Quentin pulls the quarter out of his pocket and gives Dr. King a sad smile. “No,” he says as he starts flipping it over his knuckles. “But I will.”

A half-hour later, Quentin goes straight back to his room. Private therapy exhausts him, and he needs to lay in the quiet before dinner. He’d gone over the previous night's dream in detail with Dr. King. This one featured one of his fantasies from when he’d been doped up on that happy place pill—sitting in Julia’s penthouse, surrounded by friends, watching some random movie. It all went to shit when Margo suddenly turned on him, yelling and crying in his face. He’d looked to his left and there was Eliot, prone on the floor, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Alice sat on the couch, watching wordlessly, her hands folded in her lap.

The dreams all had the same theme, Eliot or Alice or both of them dead or a niffin, hating and loving Quentin all at once. Julia, Kady and even Penny had started popping up as well, smiling wickedly at him or at each other while he screamed and cried. Sometimes they were at Brakebills, sometimes the cabin, at Julia’s or here at the clinic. The doctors gave him potions to help him sleep, and they worked, but also left him muddled and blurry during the day. It was a small price to pay for actual rest, for not living out his worst fears nightly, but he knew he was slowly becoming a shell of himself. A ghost of the man he knew was fighting so hard to break through the wall of self-loathing and disgust he’d built up over the years. They weren’t a long-term solution anyway—he could only have them a couple times a week, lest his addictive personality latch on too tightly. 

He flops down on his bed and closes his eyes, breathing deeply in through his nose, out through his mouth. He tries to blank out his mind, imagining a clear white canvas stretching out before him. Soon he can feel tension leaving his limbs, his body settling heavily into the mattress. It’s not long before that white canvas is overrun, as it always is, with vivid, colorful pictures of Eliot.

Under a starry sky in North Carolina, Eliot’s face streaked with tears as Quentin tries to climb into his lap to hold him close. In his bed at the Cottage, his naked body sweaty and tense beneath Quentin as he reels Quentin in for a kiss. In the Observatory Tower, the light in his eyes dying as Quentin pulls away from him. In the infirmary bed, pale and fragile and refusing to even look at Quentin. 

Two weeks since Quentin had a drink, smoked a joint, or touched Eliot’s skin. Kissed his lips. Heard his voice. Fuck, he wishes he had his phone. He knows it's good that he doesn’t; he’d told Eliot he wouldn’t contact him again. But his addiction to Eliot is going to be far harder to kick than any alcohol. He’d asked Julia yesterday if she’d talked to him, and of course she hadn’t, why would she? The only thing she and Eliot had in common was their misguided love for Quentin, and that’s not exactly the kind of thing you’d invite someone over for brunch to talk about. She’d said she would ask Penny, and Quentin had nodded, changing the subject. It was stupid to ask.

_What’s he doing right now_ , Quentin wonders. He’s somewhere not too far from Quentin, same state at least. He should be done with classes for the day. Provided he’s back at school after being in the infirmary; Quentin hopes to God he is, that he was able to go back to the Cottage the next day. Maybe he’s studying. Talking to Margo. Lying in bed, just like Quentin is right now. Thinking about Quentin just like he’s thinking about Eliot.

Not likely. If he’s thinking about Quentin at all, it’s probably just _good riddance_. Margo was right, he should never go near Eliot again. Eliot doesn’t deserve the pain Quentin brings with him wherever he goes. And Quentin doesn’t deserve the fuzzy feelings that spread all over his body whenever Eliot smiled at him.

Maybe he’s moving on. Thinking about the next party at the Cottage. Maybe he’s already met someone else. He could be on a date right now.

The thought sends a stab of pain through Quentin’s chest, and he blinks away the hot tears that rush to his eyes. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He should be thinking about Julia’s visit, how genuine her smile was when he’d walked into the visitors room and how tightly she’d hugged him. She congratulated him on making it two weeks sober (not that he has much of a choice with everything he puts into his body being closely monitored, but he’ll take the victory), or that he’s actually gone to yoga twice since he’s been here and didn’t hate it ( _see_ , he _does_ some of the hippie alternative therapy crap, Dr. King), or that he has plenty of time to actually read all the books sitting on his shelves. But he can’t stop the thought of Eliot sitting on the couch, inviting some hot little first-year to tuck right under his arm, someone that can be with him with no strings attached. Like he deserves.

Quentin’s face feels cold again and he doesn’t have to touch his cheeks to know tears are streaming down his face. _Get a fucking grip_. Dr. King would tell him he’s catastrophizing. _That is an irrational thought. It’s not real._ He keeps breathing in, and out, trying to blank out his mind, center himself. God, two yoga classes and he’s all ‘harnessing his chi’ or whatever. Julia would be proud.

His eyes are still closed when he registers something brightening in the room, despite the fact that it’s now dark outside and he didn’t turn on any lights. He sniffs and wipes his eyes, slowly opening his eyes. There is a light coming from his nightstand, right next to his lamp. He turns his head, and jerks upright when he sees the pocket watch. Eliot’s pocket watch. He usually tucks it into his dresser when he leaves his room, but he’d forgotten when he went for his therapy session. And now it's lighting up, a solid beam of light shining from the watch to the wall of his room, disappearing where it hits the wall.

A shocked laugh falls from Quentin’s lips as he picks it up, laying it on the flat of his palm so the light is unimpeded by his fingers. Only Eliot or himself can activate the summoning charm on it. And Quentin hasn’t done it; he’s had no reason to. He’d honestly forgotten all about the charm.

But Eliot hasn’t.

He's thinking about Quentin. Reaching out. Does he know Quentin can see it, this far away? Or is he just casting into the darkness, remembering when Quentin had shown him the charm, that morning in the cabin? Quentin didn’t know the spell would work even a mile away, let alone however many miles were between them now.

A smile spreads on his face, and he laughs again, his heart suddenly soaring. As he watches, the light fades, and the watch is back to normal, ticking away merrily. But before Quentin can feel disappointed, it lights up again, the beam strong and true, aiming in the same direction.

“Eliot,” he whispers, his heart wanting to burst and tear in two all at once. God, he could follow that fucking light straight to him. One mile or hundreds, he’d crawl it on his hands and knees if he had to.

He stares at it, his hand shaking as the light fades and reappears one more time. When it doesn’t light up again, Quentin gently sets it on the nightstand. While he wishes it would stay alight all night, he’s not disappointed.

Eliot is thinking about him. Wondering where he is. Maybe sitting alone in his attic bedroom, watching as the light shines directly towards Quentin.

_I’ll see him again_. Quentin knows it, down in his soul. Their story isn’t over.

That’s why he’s here. So that when they do meet again, Quentin will be ready. He picks up the watch and tucks it into his dresser. And then he goes to dinner. There’s a movie night after, and he thinks he’ll actually attend this time.

~~~

_Eliot_

Eliot sighs, closing his book and tossing it to the side. “I can’t believe we’re actually spending our nights _studying_.”

Margo smirks, flipping another page in her magazine. “Well, one of us is. The one that’s still playing catch up after spending a week on his ass.”

Eliot frowns. “I was _recuperating_.” He reclines back on Margo’s bed, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he rolls over on his side, trying not to look at the Chris Evans spread in Margo’s magazine—Quentin insisted that Hemsworth was his favorite Marvel Chris, but Eliot knew better. No one watches the movie ‘Push’ that many times for the _plot_.

“While I will always and forever appreciate your company,” Eliot begins, his throat suddenly thick, “But you don’t have to stay in with me. I’m not sure when I’ll really be able to—go out. Like we used to.”

Margo’s gaze slides over to him, and she closes the magazine, tossing it on her nightstand. She slides down in the bed until she’s laying on her side, her face a foot away from Eliot’s. “Oh, I know,” she says casually. “But fucking sue me for wanting a little more face time now that Quentin isn’t stuck on your cock all the time.”

He can’t stop himself from flinching, just for a second as a cloud that passes over his face at the mention of his name. He’s never _not_ thinking about Quentin, but hearing his name spoken out loud makes his heart jerk in his chest. On one hand, it’s been two weeks; he should be able to go at least ten seconds without thinking about Quentin, but on the other, god, it’s only been two weeks. Sometimes it feels like two years.

He spent most of the week after he got released from the infirmary under Margo’s watchful eye, either in his room or hers. He only came out for food, bathroom trips, and three times to take the portal into the city to see a therapist Margo set him up with. He has no idea how much Margo is paying her to listen to Eliot ramble about his horrible childhood and the people he’s killed, but she's a magician and told Eliot if he didn’t want to talk she's happy to just sit in silence and collect her fee anyway. Eliot hates her. Well, he doesn’t hate _her_ so much as he hates how shitty he feels every time he leaves her office, but he hasn’t had a drink ever since his heart stopped in his chest, so he’s calling it a win.

Now that he’s back in class, he’ll be seeing her in person once a week and twice by phone or video. It’s weird, talking to his therapist on the phone about how it took him half the day to plan his outfit for his one class and study group because everything in his closet reminds him of Quentin and makes him want to crawl under the covers and never come out, but he’ll get used to it. He thinks. It’s even kind of nice. In a way he’d never actually say out loud.

Margo is watching him, her eyes wide in that exasperated, concerned way she has, and he shrugs. “I’m afraid your social standing is never going to recover. You’re already hanging out with the guy who not only got a professor fired, but also ensured the Cottage would never see another party for at least a year.” He pauses, leaning back on his hand. “Besides, you can’t tell me you’re not dying to go to a party at the Castle. I heard they nearly blew the roof off Saturday. Quite literally.”

“Pretentious twats,” Margo says immediately. But Eliot can see the wistfulness in her gaze, even as it disappears, replaced by a surprisingly soft smile.

“You know the party is always where I’m at. Where we are.” She reaches up and pushes a lock of hair off his forehead, her hand trailing down his face. “And you didn’t get anyone fired, El. As sickening as it is to say the words, you fell in love.” She searches his face, and he’s reminded of the look on her face when he first saw her in the hospital that night, makeup streaked down her face, that lower lip trembling as he whispered _Hi, Bambi_. “I always knew it would be life-changing when you caught feelings.”

“In the worst way,” he says. “Devastating. Dramatic. Tragic.” He smiles softly, even as another piece of his heart tears off and flutters to the floor.

She rolls her eyes, smirking. “God, dramatic is your middle name. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” Her face growing serious, she pushes up on one elbow. “Is anyone giving you shit about Quentin getting fired? Tell me, I’ll rip their fucking ovaries out.”

Eliot chuckles, turning to lay on his back. “Not really. People are going to talk, Bambi—nothing we can do about that.” It was too coincidental, with Eliot’s collapse during a party followed by a screaming match between Quentin and Margo that he _knows_ Lipson didn’t keep her mouth shut about, and then Quentin’s sudden disappearance. It didn’t take a master magician to connect all the dots. Eliot can hear conversation stop when he walks into the Cottage or any classroom, and while his first instinct is to raise his head high and embrace the carnage, now he just tries his best to shrug it off. People will find something else to gossip about. Flying under the radar is his plan for the next year and a half. And after that… is a problem for Future Eliot.

“I honestly think most of the Physical Kids are glad to have the Cottage quiet for once,” he admits. “And I do need to actually study if I want to graduate. Especially if Fogg is watching me.”

Margo presses her lips together, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against her thigh. “How’d the meeting with the hot psychic go? You figure out why his nickname is Penny?”

Eliot groans. “No. It was okay, I guess. He didn’t make me piss in a cup, at least.” Eliot had seen Professor Adiyodi the week before, a quick five-minute meeting where he confirmed yes, he was going to class, nope, not planning any parties, and nope, hadn’t fucked any faculty in the past two weeks and could he go now? Great. It was _awkward_ and Eliot has to go _every week_ until he _graduates_ and Adiyodi wasn’t even dressed casually so Eliot could get an eyeful of those gorgeous pecs and abs. “He actually seemed more irritated than usual, which I didn’t think was possible,” Eliot continues, picking up Margo’s hand and slotting their fingers together. “I think things may be on the rocks with Sunderland.”

“Really?” Margo says, perking up instantly. “So she’s single?”

“Bambi…” Eliot says, squeezing her hand, pulling her into a tight hug. “Have we not learned our lesson about fucking the faculty?” He tickles her along the sliver of skin at the small of her back, and she squeals and laughs, pushing at him with her foot.

“Well you got me wondering if professor pussy is as good as professor dick,” she gasps out, pushing out of his arms and Eliot nearly off the bed. He always forgets how strong she is for being so tiny.

“I don’t think it works that way,” he laughs, sliding off the bed and standing up. She grins up at him, and he feels so much lighter, just for a moment. Then reality settles back in, that he’s going back to his room alone, with no Quentin waiting on the other end of his phone. It’s as if the lights dim around him as he looks over at the door.

“I’m gonna head to my room,” he says, grabbing his books from her bed and the floor where they’d fallen. Margo gets up and walks over to him, drawing him into a tight hug. 

“See ya, dickwaffle,” she whispers. Pulling away, she asks, “Brunch tomorrow? I only have Specialized Cryo in the afternoon.”

Nodding he brushes his lips against her cheek and slips out. He heads up to his bedroom, where he sets his books on his nightstand. Then he grabs his jacket and a pack of cigarettes and quietly heads down the attic stairs.

He quietly peers down into the hallway, making sure it’s empty before he descends all the way down the stairs. Then he stands in front of the linen closet, performing the tuts that are almost second nature by now. The magic flows from his fingers, and he opens the door, stepping into the magically-revealed tunnel that will lead him out onto the back lawn.

The journey is a quick one, and it’s only minutes later that he’s climbing the steep, circular stairs that lead to the Observatory Tower. It’s the same it always is—a large, dirty telescope on the circular track, and the ripped orange armchair in the center. He ignores the armchair entirely, going to his normal spot on the bench and shoving open a window, setting his phone down in front of him. He shakily lights a cigarette that he really, really fucking wishes was a joint, and inhales, the smoke burning down his throat and into his lungs.

This is _hard_. Living, existing in this new reality where his heart is shattered and he’s not allowed to use any of his old friends, booze and drugs, to help soothe the pain. Where he always uses the secret door to leave the Cottage, because then he doesn’t have to pass by the liquor bottles neatly lining the shelves in the main room (at least, they better still be neatly lining the shelves, just because he can’t drink any of it doesn’t mean his organization system should be thrown to the wind). He hasn’t cooked since he came back from the infirmary, his heart racing every time he slips into the kitchen for something quick to eat, as if even glancing at the bottles in the wine cooler will somehow count as ‘falling off the wagon.’ He gets why they call it a wagon, because this is bumpy and painful and just entirely fucking shitty.

This is the hardest thing he’s ever done, which is just—fucking ridiculous. He’s memorized solar and moon cycles, can call up any one of hundreds of different spells in an instant, he’s killed people, stood up to his father before leaving on a greyhound to NYC near dawn, but not taking a shot or a hit from a bong every time Quentin’s face flashes in his brain makes all of that seem like a walk in the park.

Vikki, his therapist, has given him some breathing and mental exercises to use when he feels like the walls are closing in on him. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, because surely Vikki meant for him to be smoking when he does them. And while he does feel more relaxed, the tremble in his fingers dissipating, there is no breathing exercise that will change the fact that he’s lost the love of his life.

Has it really only been two weeks since Eliot last saw him, his eyes full of regret as he walked out of his room at the infirmary? He shouldn’t do this, he knows. Come here, to the tower and think about Quentin. Stare up at the night sky and imagine him tucked under Eliot’s arm, warm and solid. 

He should be putting the past behind him. Again. He _should_ be clearing all reminders of Quentin away, deleting him from his phone, trying to _actually_ move on. He’s back in class, going to therapy, meeting with his new advisor—he has so many appointments he actually needs that planner he threw away at the start of the year. 

But just the thought of it, of labeling Quentin as an ex… boyfriend? Lover? Whatever, makes him sick to his stomach. 

It had ended just like Margo _and_ Quentin had said it would. Horribly and almost tragically, with Quentin’s career and both their hearts bleeding out, staining the bright green grass of the Sea. Eliot should regret the entire thing, should be eager to move on to someone, something new. But he would never, _could never_ choose to have not met Quentin. To have not known what it was like to love him, to touch him, to hear his laughter or see his eyes roll when he was feeling particularly bratty.

It was inevitable, really, that Eliot would wind up in a hospital bed, dangling between life and death. Before he’d met Quentin, he’d been walking down a dark path. Eliot had known it, had felt the darkness closing in around him, and he hadn’t given a shit. And then Quentin had shown up, holding his light aloft, revealing an entirely new world full of love, acceptance, _possibility_ to Eliot. And even though Quentin is gone, his light still remains. And Eliot isn’t going to squander it.

He unlocks his phone, flipping back through their text messages. He tuts out his cigarette stub and lights another, reading over the last message Quentin had sent. 

_I love you. I always will. I hope we can be in each other’s lives again. I understand if that’s not possible. But I will always want that._

A hard lump forms in his throat, and he quickly navigates away, opening up his favorites album in his photo app. In only seconds he’s staring at the picture he once looked at so often he’d thought it was burned into his brain.

Quentin, an infectious smile on his face, brown eyes lit up, so relaxed and genuine as the sun shines down on him. The familiar 'Brian's Books' sign behind his shoulder. Eliot’s finger trails down the screen, like Quentin might come alive under his touch. His vision blurs as he stares down at it, and then he huffs out a breath, blinking away the tears as he locks the phone and sets it down on the bench. He stares up at the stars just becoming visible as twilight falls before sighing and unlocking his phone again, going back to the text thread.

_But I will always want that._

“Me, too,” Eliot whispers, his eyes closing, face crumpling as he lets the pain roll through his body. It’s a harsh ripple from his heart out to his fingers and toes, like a full body cramp that he can never stretch out. Memories of the cabin in Asheville, late nights in Eliot’s bedroom flicker through his mind’s eye. He’d give anything to be back there, in the past, before reality had come crashing down on them. He doesn’t even realize his fingers are moving, but he looks down at his phone and he’s typed out _There is no world where I will not want you._ And then he’s hitting send—and away it goes.

He stares at the screen, barely breathing, as nothing happens. And of course it doesn’t. He may have sent his words to Quentin’s phone, but Quentin won’t be seeing them. Well. _Shit_. He will eventually. When he gets out of rehab.

God. Quentin’s in _rehab_. Eliot has no idea where; just that it’s ‘outside the city,’ per his text. He could be in a swanky ‘metal health spa’ near Aspen or locked up in some brick building with bars on the windows in Long Island. The thought makes Eliot shudder, but he realizes that if Kady sent Quentin there, it must be a good place. He wishes he could wrap an arm around Quentin’s shoulders and tell him that he’s strong enough to do this. He’s strong enough to do anything. And Quentin could tuck himself under Eliot’s chin, and whisper _So are you_.

Eliot almost reaches in his pocket again, expecting to find the watch that he gave to Quentin. Two weeks and he still reaches for it daily. Eliot looks around the small tower, remembering that night months ago when he had climbed the steps expecting nothing but a peaceful high, and had found a startled and confused Quentin Coldwater. The first time their magic had worked together, surprising Eliot in the best way.

He’d already had a crush forming, and after that night, it had cart-wheeled into beautiful, complicated feelings. Does Quentin have the watch with him? Would he even be allowed to have it?

His heartbeat speeds up as Eliot magicks away his cigarette and, before he loses his nerve, tuts out the spell Quentin had shown him at the cabin. The summoning spell for his watch. And in seconds a strong beam of light is shining out of his fingertips, away from Eliot and to the north wall, disappearing into the brick of the tower.

Eliot inhales sharply as the magic sears through him, so fucking familiar and comforting that tears immediately spring to his eyes. Casting the summoning spell sends tingles through him the same way the mending spell did when he fixed the pocket watch or the piano with Quentin. Bright and effervescent and fierce and just so _right_ that for a second Eliot stops breathing, and he _knows_ with every fiber of his being that Quentin is touching the other end of the light shining out of his hand. It’s so strong and vivid Eliot swears he can feel Quentin’s palm grazing his fingertips.

Eliot stares at the beam with wide eyes, his body one tense muscle, waiting as if some kind of message might flow down through the light like those holograms in Star Wars. _Wait for me, Eliot Waugh; you’re my only hope._

The light fades away, and Eliot shakes the _Star Wars_ out of his head—god, _thanks Quentin_ —and quickly casts it again, his magic surging out of him, filling up the small space. The beam of light shines bright and true, away from the tower. He could follow it, he thinks. All the way to Quentin.

When it fades again, Eliot casts it one more time, shifting his hand so the light moves with it, pointing in the same direction. That same rush surges through his body, the absolute certainty that Quentin is on the other end, sending a shot of straight giddiness to Eliot’s heart. A stupid smile, the first genuine one he’s had in weeks, spreads over his face. It remains even as the light fades from his fingertips.

It’s ridiculous, because even though he has no real evidence Quentin even has the watch, some of the heaviness has disappeared from Eliot’s shoulders. That watch has been destroyed and put back together at least three times. Are he and Quentin that strong? Can they pick up the pieces and come back together better than before?

It’s too soon to tell, Eliot knows. But as he slips his phone in his pocket and leaves the tower, Eliot can’t help but be warmed by the flicker of hope in his chest.

~~~

_Quentin_

_February_

_~~Dear~~ Eliot,_

_Hey. My therapist said I should write out how I’m feeling since I can’t say it to you right now. I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. I don’t know if you’d even want to read it. Probably not. I wouldn’t want to read a shitty letter from me if I were you._

_Sorry. I’m not supposed to think of my feelings as shitty, or bad. Or whatever. Anyway. Yeah I’m never sending this._

_I miss you. A lot. I know it’s only been a month, but it feels like a lot longer. I think about you. Maybe even more than when we were together, but that’s not really possible. I think it’s just that here I have so much time. To think. I mean I do_ do _stuff. Like therapy. And group therapy. And alternative therapy. I hope you can see a trend here._

_~~It’s not all bad. I mean it’s not bad at all, like it’s good, you know, therapy, yay! I gotta find a pencil.~~ _

_~~When I’m not talking about how much I miss you~~ _

~~_When I’m not talking about all of the horrible things that have ever happened to me_ ~~

_I started doing yoga. Yeah. I know. I actually fucking like it, as much as you can like something at 8AM. I tried one of the painting classes once but I kind of made a mess and the teacher said it was fine but she looked really mad that I wasted so much paint. So I haven’t gone back. I read a lot. The library here is actually huge, which is amazing. And I do the magic practice sessions, which are stupid easy. There are several patients here dealing with dark magic addictions, so not like we can really try anything complex. I actually wound up teaching the instructor a few advanced meta-mending principles, which was pretty cool. It turns out a lot of the concepts I use in basic mending can be applied to—_

_Sorry. You probably don’t care about that. I think we’ve finally found some meds that might work. I’m not as tired as I used to be, but maybe that’s because I’m not drunk or high most of the day and I’m actually sleeping longer than four hours a night. ~~I mean I don’t sleep as well as I did when I was with you, but~~ The dreams have gotten better too. I still dream about you and Alice, but it’s not—_

_Eliot, I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am. I can see now… there’s a lot of shit I’ve done wrong the past several years. I’ve been really selfish. Took my friends… you for granted. I still have a lot of shit to work through, every day is a struggle, but the thought of seeing you again makes it easier to get out of bed._

_And the watch.. I mean, maybe it’s some glitch. Maybe you’re not doing the summoning spell a few times a week. But if you are… I see it. It reminds me why I’m here. What I’m fighting for._

_I love you._

_Quentin_

Quentin sighs and sets his pen down, glancing over the letter. Then he folds the papers together and shoves them into an envelope, sealing it and scribbling Eliot’s name on the front. He tosses it in his nightstand drawer, hurriedly shutting it. Then he sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the drawer, exhaling as he pushes his hair behind his ears.

Dr. King was right. As always. He feels better. Not as good as it would feel to actually talk to Eliot, touch him. That would be amazing. Terrifying. And not something that’s going to happen any time soon.

Valentine’s Day is in a little over a week. The only time he’d ever truly celebrated it was when he was with Alice, and even then, barely. She’d told him she didn’t care for those kinds of holidays, but she’d accepted the daisies he’d given her—her favorite—with a soft smile.

The thought that he could’ve been with Eliot this year, who Quentin is sure _does_ care for those kinds of holidays, brings a fresh wave of regret to his heart. But he reminds himself—even if they were together, how could they have celebrated? Portaled somewhere far away where no one would see them? Had a romantic dinner hidden away in Eliot’s room or the observatory tower?

He sighs and looks at the pocket watch on his nightstand. It’s almost 2PM—when Julia usually arrives. She’s been visiting faithfully twice a week, every Monday and Thursday since Quentin arrived, sometimes alone, sometimes with Kady. He slips the watch into his dresser and makes his way down to the main area, which is full of comfortable couches and chairs for visitors. He smiles when he sees her walk in—with Kady by her side.

“Hey,” he says, wrapping Julia in a hug. She squeezes him hard, and he moves to Kady, who hugs him just as tightly. They sit on their usual couch in the back of the room against the wall, Julia between Quentin and Kady.

“Q,” Julia says, taking him in, as if she hasn’t seen him in weeks, even though she was just here three days ago. “You look great.”

He grins, tucking his hair behind his ear and adjusting his glasses on his face. “I look the same I did on Monday.”

“You looked great then, too,” she says, smiling.

“She’s right, Coldwater,” Kady says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “You look good with some meat on your bones. You workin’ out?” Her grin grows wider as she surveys him from head to toe.

Quentin’s face grows warm as he rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like, yoga. And sometimes I go to the gym or swim. But like—fuck off,” he says as Kady’s grin dissolves into laughter.

“I brought more books for you,” Julia says. “And some cookies.” She nods at the front counter, where an employee is checking over her bags before Quentin can take them to his room. Quentin shakes his head, unable to stop the smile from forming on his face.

“You know they feed me here. Really well, actually.” Julia shrugs and grins at him, and Quentin asks, “So how are you two? Any big changes in the past few days?”

Julia exchanges a look with Kady, and Quentin gets a distinct feeling she’s about to drop something on him, but she just shrugs and turns back to him with a smile. “Not much. Oh, Fogg called me,” Julia adds. “Asked how you were. I told him to go fuck himself.”

“Did you really?” Quentin asks, not sure how to take that. He’s thought a lot about how he left things with Henry since he got fired, and he’s still not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, Henry did help him out when he needed it most—with a job, an opportunity to make something of himself that he knows he wouldn’t have found elsewhere. It wasn’t Henry’s fault Quentin stayed far longer than he should have, wallowing in his own self-hatred while hiding out in his shitty faculty apartment for five years. And he was well within his rights to fire Quentin; while he’d never regret being with Eliot, he never should have fucked a student.

On the other hand, Henry is the Dean of an institution that has virtually no mental health support for students (or faculty) that are going into, like, the craziest, life-changing situation anyone can go into. It’s ridiculous, really. Therapeutic magic does exist; Dr. King has talked to Quentin about it. They’d decided that beyond the potions to help with his dreams, it isn't something Quentin needs right now. If he doesn’t make progress with traditional therapy, then they’ll talk about magical therapies. They’ve even had a conversation about the principles Quentin taught in his mending classes could apply to some aspects of the human brain, but Dr. King hadn’t let that get very far before they changed the subject. 

In the end, Quentin decided to not think about Henry until he was at least out of the clinic. He had enough to focus on without adding him to the list of people to feel guilty about. But to hear that he’d called and asked how Quentin was doing is surprising, to say the least.

Julia smirks playfully. “Maybe I didn’t use those exact words. But I should’ve.” Settling back against the couch, she slides one leg under her and asks, “So how are you?”

“I’m—” He’s about to say good, but he breaks off, glancing down at the floor. “I’m okay,” he says instead, feeling like that’s more truthful. And he’s working on telling the truth as much as he can now. “It’s, uh. I’m not gonna say it’s getting _easier_ every day. But. I’m getting used to the routine, I guess?” He clears his throat, his eyes drifting down to the couch. He pulls the quarter out of his pocket and holds it in his palm, thinking of the cold metal of the pocket watch in his room. “I wrote a letter earlier today. Like I told you Dr. King suggested. To Eliot.” He glances up at Julia and to Kady, watching him with sympathetic, open eyes. He doesn’t often mention Eliot when they visit; he felt like it would put a damper on their time with him. But he knows they wouldn’t ask if they didn’t want to know. “It, um. Made me feel better? To write some stuff down.”

“That’s great, Q,” Julia says, clasping his hand. She glances over at Kady, and then back to Quentin. “We saw Penny yesterday. He sees Eliot pretty regularly, since they have that whole—arrangement.”

Quentin nods, his pulse spiking. When he’d heard that Penny was some kind of advisor to Eliot, he’d immediately felt immensely guilty. It still pounds against him, to know that yet another person has shit added to their plate because of Quentin’s fuckups. And he reminds himself, again, that these people are his friends. He can repay them by getting healthy and staying that way. 

“He said Eliot is doing okay. He’s going to class, living at the Cottage, getting back to normal.”

“That’s—That’s great,” Quentin says, blinking quickly, adjusting his glasses, a weird mixture of happiness and sorrow crowding his chest. Eliot’s good—he’s good. Back in class, with Margo, just as he should be. “I—” Quentin cuts himself off, not even sure what he wants to say or ask, or even if Julia would know the answer anyway. _How are his classes going? Did he settle on a thesis topic yet? Does Margo still want to kill me? Is he still drinking? Did he ask about me?_

He sighs, thinking of the night before, when he’d sat on his bed and held the pocket watch in his hand as it had lit up, the beam of light stretching back towards Brakebills. He hasn’t told anyone about it, and he’s not going to. He’s afraid they would take it away, the only evidence he has that Eliot still thinks of him. Quentin misses him so much it’s a physical ache in his chest.

“That’s good,” Quentin says instead, swallowing the lump in his throat. “That he’s good. He is _good_ , right?” Quentin turns back to Julia, needing something, anything more about him.

Julia’s smiling at him sympathetically. She’s opening her mouth to respond when Kady breaks in. “He probably feels just as shitty as you do. But he’s got Penny checking in on him, and that Margo chick that Penny said would eat glass before letting anything happen to him.” She fixes Quentin with a hard stare, and he hunches his shoulders in, withdrawing into himself. Kady reaches out over Julia’s knees and grabs Quentin’s hand, tugging it until he meets her eyes.

Quentin remembers when her mom died back in third year, how Kady would disappear for days at a time, Julia bouncing between worry and anger while she was gone. Kady would always turn back up, sometimes with bruises that she never talked about, always acting like she’d just stepped out for a walk around the block and had no idea what everyone was so pissy about. 

It wasn’t until several months after they’d boxed Alice that she’d taken him aside, telling him about her own struggles with addiction. She’d hit her own rock bottom, and had checked herself into rehab the summer before fourth year. Quentin had been so buried in Alice and keeping them from falling apart he hadn’t even noticed she was gone. 

When she’d been recovering from her back injury when Niffin Alice had attacked her, she’d been adamant about not taking any prescription pain medication, relying on her own mediocre healing magic and ibuprofen. He’d had no idea it was because she was terrified of going back down that dark road she’d nearly died on. The same one she was convinced was Quentin walking down. And Kady had been right, hadn’t she?

He’d blown her off. Told her he was grieving, and to mind her own damn business. It wasn’t long after that she stopped pushing entirely, and silently watched as Julia tried her damndest to keep Quentin from destroying himself.

Now she gazes at him with soft eyes, and his face grows warm like it always does when she lowers her guard and lets Quentin see the woman Julia fell head over heels for.

“You have to focus on things you can control,” she tells him softly, and he swallows hard, knowing she’s right. “There is nothing you can do about how good Eliot is or isn’t. Only Eliot can control that. And you’ll drive yourself crazy thinking about him. Focus on the shit you _can_ control—like getting enough sleep. Eating every day. Going to yoga and namaste’ing your bad thoughts away. Talking in group as often as you can and being honest with your therapist so they can help you figure out what works for you when you want to drink or get high. So that the next time you have a hard decision to make, you’ll make the healthy one. So that when shit goes sideways again—and it _will_ —one day, you’ll know how to deal with it in a way that doesn’t end in losing your job or passing out in a bar. So that when you _do_ see Eliot again, you know you’ll have busted your ass so the two of you have the best possible chance of being happy. And maybe that’s together, or maybe that’s not, I don’t know. But you gotta try to set him aside. Just for a little while.”

Quentin nods as she squeezes his palm, blinking quickly so the tears that are threatening to fall stay behind his eyelids. Julia leans into Kady’s side, gazing up at her like she’s the sun, the only source of light in the entire world.

“Sometimes I think you’re smarter than me,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss on the underside of Kady’s jaw. 

Kady rolls her eyes and drops Quentin’s hand, moving it to rest on Julia’s thigh. “Smarter? Doubtful. Wiser? Absolutely.”

Quentin sighs, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I know, um. I know you’re right. And that’s something I’m working on with my therapists here, um, getting those feelings out in a healthy way. And, uh, actually. That’s something I wanted to talk to you guys about. The letters I said I was writing?” His pulse spikes as he slips the quarter in his hand between his fingers.

"Yeah, the one to Eliot, " Julia says. “Are you going to send it?”

“No,” Quentin says. Then he considers, and says, “I don't know. But—that's not why I brought it up. I don't want to write letters to the two of you. You’re right here. Like you’ve always been. As long as I’ve known both of you. And I can tell you.”

“Tell us what?” Kady asks softly, her body angled towards Quentin, leaning against the back of the couch as she holds Julia’s hand.

“That I’m only alive because of the two of you,” Quentin says. “I know I’ve said that before, but—it’s true. And I, uh. I’ve been, like. A horrible friend.” He clears his throat, glancing around the room at the other patients talking with family and friends. And the ones that sit alone, hoping that someone familiar may walk through the door. A position Quentin is eternally grateful to have never been in.

“Q—” Julia starts, closing her mouth as Quentin holds up his hand and shakes his head at her.

“Just—let me get this out.” Julia nods, and Quentin exhales a deep breath. “Those first few years, with both of you and Alice, at Brakebills, where magic is real and like, it really felt like all my fantasies were actually coming true, were the best of my life. And you guys were such a huge part of why, and I don’t know if I ever told you that.” He looked into Julia’s wide grown eyes, already shiny with unshed tears.

“Julia, when I looked around the room during the entrance exam and saw you, you have no idea how relieved, or happy I was to see you. And no matter what, you’re always there for me. When my Dad died. When it took like, three years to figure out my stupid discipline. When I thought I was going to get expelled and all the nights trying to just gather the courage to make a move on Alice—”

Julie giggles then, nearly snorting. “Sorry,” she says, sniffling. “You just, uh. Pined for a really long time.” She gives him a watery smile and says, “But Q, you were there for me just as much. When I broke up with James I cried on your shoulder every night for like, a month.”

“I wouldn’t have passed half my classes without your help,” Kady adds.

Quentin nods, trying to let their words sink in, to break through the initial gut reaction of _‘they’re only being nice’_ or _‘they’re required to say that; they’re your best friends.’_ “You can’t say the same for the past five years.”

The silence from Julia and Kady tells him all he needs to know. “After Alice died… you kept on taking care of me. Picked me up from every bar or random apartment or party I called you from. I know I still owe you some money from when you bailed me out last year.” He shifts in his seat, clasping his hands together as he looks around the room, down to the floor, out the window, anywhere but at the two women listening intently. “No matter how often I blew you off. Forgot your birthday. Threw up on your cat.”

He risks a glance at Julia; her eyes are shining with unshed tears. He realizes that, again, he is not going to make it through the day without crying. He needs to work on accepting that, too. Just another thing to add to the list.

“Rest in peace, Our Kitty Underground,” Julia says softly.

“Persephone,” Kady cuts in. “Her name was _Persephone_.”

Quentin smirks at their old argument, some of the tension fading from his shoulders. “I just need to make sure you know that I am… so sorry for taking you for granted. I know I wound up in here after everything with Eliot, but every morning when I’m struggling to get out of bed, I think about you.” He can’t stop the tremble in his voice, and Julia’s hand curls around his shoulder. “I don’t think I can ever really tell you how much it helps.” He sniffles, and subtly motions to a dark-haired woman sitting alone across the room.

“That’s Vanessa,” he says quietly. “Her drug of choice was a pill that would take you to a ‘happy place’ created just for her.” He smiles ruefully. “She checked in the same day I did. I don’t think anyone’s come to visit her once.” Turning back to Julia and Kady, he says, “I’m really lucky. I don’t deserve either one of you. Thank you for visiting me. Believing in me when no one else will. When I can’t even believe in myself.”

Julia pulls him into a hug, and Kady wraps her arms around both of them. He lets the tears fall down his face, and both of them are sniffling in his ear. He’s sure they make quite a sight, crying and hugging it out on the couch, but he doesn’t care. He’s light and heavy all at once, the road he’s stumbling down stretching out so fucking far, but brilliantly lit by a glorious sun shining down on him. 

“I’ll always believe in you, Q,” Julia says, kissing him on his forehead and pulling away. “So does Penny. In his own way. He said he’d come visit soon. He’s had a lot on his plate lately.” She smiles at him as she pushes his hair behind his ear. Kady quickly wipes her face and settles back in her seat.

Quentin nods, leaning back against the couch. “It’ll be nice to see him. He and Pearl work their stuff out?”

Julia clears her throat and crosses her legs as Kady shrugs. “So tell us about your ‘alternative therapies,’” Kady says, with a glint in her eye. “Yoga? Swimming? Have you painted the sunrise of the New York skyline yet?”

“Um. No,” Quentin says, chuckling ruefully. He tells them about the mess he made with acrylic paint, and the mess he made with charcoal, and how now he just avoids the art room entirely. They talk about the books Quentin’s been reading, about the new hedges that seem to be cropping up all over the city faster than ever, and before he knows it, visiting hours are over. He walks them to the exit, giving them one final hug before they leave.

“Oh, one other thing,” Quentin asks. “Would you mind bringing me some of my pictures? The ones in the box from my office—the framed ones of us and Dad. Um,” he pauses, his gaze flickering down to the floor. “Could you also print some from my phone? You have it right?” Julia nods, and he continues, “Uh, just like one or two of me and Eliot? Just, um, pick whatever looks good. If that’s okay.”

Julia and Kady exchange a glance, and Julia smiles at him. “Of course. I can bring some next week.” She squeezes his arm and says, “I’ll finally get that selfie of you and him I kept asking for.”

A lump forms in Quentin’s throat as he looks down to his feet. “Thank you,” he says softly. Then he jerks his head up, his eyes wide and says, “Oh, uh—don’t go into the folder named ‘TARDIS.’ It, uh, has—some—” his eyes dart around and he gestures back and forth with his hands, grasping at words.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Julia laughs. “Not touching that.” Kady gives him a smirk that makes him think he should just not have said anything and hoped for the best.

They turn to leave, but Kady stops just before the threshold, turning back to him. “Quentin,” she says, and he looks at her expectantly. “I know I said to put him away for a little while,” she says, adjusting her bag over her shoulder, “but I’m pretty sure Eliot believes in you too.” Then she gives him a small wave, and walks away.

Quentin watches her go, a soft smile spreading over his face. When the doors close and he can’t see them anymore, he turns and walks back to his room.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 15: Section 9.4 - Mindfulness-based Relapse Prevention for Two Idiots in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, OKU didn’t die because Quentin vomited on her. She didn’t even notice really; she was an old stray that wandered up to Kady’s hedge house and Kady found herself carrying her back to the penthouse before she even knew what was happening. OKU lived out her last days stuffing herself full of Fancy Feast and playing with catnip mice until she passed away peacefully and vomit-free, in her plush cat bed shaped like a Gingerbread house that Kady found at Petco. She told Julia it was on sale, but she paid full price for that bitch.


	15. Section 9.4 - Mindfulness-based Relapse Prevention for Two Idiots in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aiming for next update on Feb 9. I keep setting these due dates for myself and blowing them up, so gonna keep with a winning system. Many thanks to Hoko for betaing this monster of a chapter so quickly.
> 
> Two chapters to go!

_Eliot_

Eliot taps his fingers against the arm of the chair. It’s wooden and uncomfortable, which is surprising given that he’s in the Consciousness Building, where the psychics live/learn/are creepy losers. His weekly check-ins with Professor Adiyodi are the first time he’s ever actually gone into the building, and he expected a lot more gauzy curtains and pillows strewn everywhere and half-naked students lounging around meditating, reading minds and shit.

Maybe all the magic happens in the actual dorm on the upper floors, because the first floor, where Adiyodi’s office is located, is just as formal and stuffy as the rest of the buildings on campus (save the Cottage, which will never be considered ‘stuffy’ as long as Eliot has anything to say about it). It’s full of dark wood furniture and the same brass lamps and adornments as the TP building, visible through Penny’s office window.

“You’ve been back in classes three weeks now. Still seeing that therapist?” Adiyodi settles further into his wingback chair, the dark red leather creaking slightly with the movement.

“Yes,” Eliot says, inwardly sighing. “Twice a week she tries to get me to tell her all about my daddy issues, and once a week, she tries to get me to tell a group of strangers about much it sucks that I can’t drink away my daddy issues. Then she assigns me homework. I didn’t even know therapy _had_ homework.”

Adiyodi raises an eyebrow. “Do you do it?”

Eliot outwardly sighs and says, “Since I have literally nothing else to do with my time _besides_ homework, yes. Usually. Sometimes.” _Practically never._ He glances over the large, polished shelf that lines one wall, full of statues, vases, and trinkets. There are dozens of small glass bottles, filled with various shades of dirt, sand, and even some with snow. Eliot can see square, precise writing, labeling one bottle as ‘Sahara,’ another as ‘Kalia,’ ‘Everest,’ and so on. He imagines most of the delicate vases are older than he is, and the oriental rug that covers the hardwood floor was hand sewn by blind monks under a voluntary vow of silence.

Perks of being a traveler, Eliot thinks. Adiyodi gets more mileage out of his discipline than Eliot would; Eliot would probably just spend all of his time blipping around the globe to see how many glasses of the oldest bottle of wine in the world it takes to get him shit-faced.

“Surely there were other things you did with your time besides getting drunk or high, partying, or boning Quentin,” the professor says. Eliot stares at him blankly for a moment until Adiyodi rolls his eyes. “Well, find a new hobby. Join the Welters team or something.”

Eliot almost smiles as he shifts in his seat. “That would only increase my need to get black out drunk, I promise you.” Their first year, Margo had captained the Physical Kids team and roped him into joining. He’d always known his Bambi was competitive, but putting her as the leader in the nerdiest magical competition Eliot had seen outside of the Harry Potter movies upped her blood lust by tenfold. She had them running laps before practices (you literally stood in one spot for the entire game, no endurance needed, Bambi) and spending hours practicing every random tut she could pull out of her ass. It had only taken two weeks of that shit for him to nearly drain the Cottage of their entire liquor supply just to stop himself from strangling her. Thank God the tournament between the disciplines only lasted a month, and he’d happily burned his black Welters polo and matching socks.

He’d felt a twinge of regret as he watched them turn to ashes; that shirt made his collarbones and biceps look _amazing_.

“Look, between my classes and therapy and starting my thesis, I have plenty to occupy my time. No parties _or_ drinking _or_ smoking. Well, no pot, anyway.” He’s going through nearly a pack of cigarettes every two days at this point. Vikki has told him more than once he can’t replace one addiction with another, and he keeps saying he’ll quit. Maybe after he graduates.

“You pick a topic?” Adiyodi asks, clasping his hands together in his lap.

Eliot launches into a detailed description of his thesis, hoping to eat up enough time to satisfy the professor and end their meeting. He keeps waiting for Adiyodi to cut him off and tell him he’s heard enough, but he seems to be listening. Even passively interested, from the glint in his eyes. Which is not what Eliot expected, but on the other hand, why _wouldn’t_ he be interested? Eliot has damn good ideas, and a dissection of the application principles behind matter manipulation and wide-range physical telekinetic theory as applied to long-range portals is one of his (few) academic strokes of brilliance. He may even actually follow through with it. If he wants to graduate. And since Quentin got fired so Eliot would have the opportunity to, he’s going to fucking graduate. Even if he winds up defending a thesis centered on the best methods for mixing a dozen different cocktails at once (which would actually be impressive, and he should put on his short list.)

He shoves Quentin out of his mind and focuses back on Professor Adiyodi, who nods as Eliot finishes. “Impressive,” he says, and Eliot smiles, preening just a bit under the praise. The smile drops off his face as Adiyodi continues, “Gonna be hard to pull that off if you’re skipping classes.”

Eliot crosses a leg over his knee and squares his shoulders. “I overslept,” he says shortly.

“For a two o’clock class?” Adiyodi says dryly. “And Cortez said you fell asleep during his lecture last week. I guess I should be glad you at least made it through the door.”

“Oh, come on,” Eliot says indignantly, leaning forward. He’s not going to bother asking how Adiyodi knows every class he misses; no sense in asking the psychic that teaches other psychics how to read minds how he knows everything going on in his life. “ _Everyone_ falls asleep in Cortez’s class at one point or another.”

Adiyodi’s intense brown eyes say he agrees, but his stupid gorgeous mouth says, “ _Everyone_ wasn’t on the edge of getting kicked out and mind-wiped. _Go to class_ and keep your _eyes open_. Okay?” He fixes Eliot with a look that reminds him of Margo when Todd told her he’d drank the last bottle of her favorite wine. Well, maybe not that ferocious, but a definite promise of serious consequences to come.

Eliot leans back in his chair and mutters under his breath, “Okay, Dad.” Adiyodi’s expression inches towards full-scale Margo, and he quickly retracts. “I will. The new meds I’m on just make me tired. Vikki—‘that therapist’—said if I still feel ‘lethargic’ we’ll try something new.”

It’s partly true, at least. He is on new meds, and they do make him tired. But he’d overslept because he’d sat in the Observatory Tower way too late the night before, his fingers itching to cast the summoning spell over and over until it somehow magically pulled Quentin to him. He forced a limit on himself—only three times a week, maximum. Every time the light surged from his fingers, he always felt that same connection from within, as if Quentin was touching him, dragging the pads of his fingertips across Eliot’s palm.

The professor’s expression softens slightly, and he nods. “Well, I’m glad you’re on something. You going to meetings?”

Eliot gives a short chuckle. “Um, no. That… is a little too ‘higher power’ for me. I do group therapy once a week after I see Vikki, and I do all my homework, magical and mundane, and I’m doing fine. No need to worry.” _Can we please go back to talking about Welters or my thesis or literally anything else?_

Adiydoi must have heard Eliot’s silent prayer (which is a real possibility, Eliot thinks no matter how tight his mental wards are, they’re no match for such an experienced psychic), because he says, “Alright. Good luck on your thesis and I’ll see you next week.” Then he picks up a batch of papers on his desk, shuffling through them as he grabs a pen, effectively dismissing Eliot.

Eliot stands up and turns to the door, but he stops after one step. He’s been dying to ask, ever since his first meeting with the professor, but he hasn’t. Because it’s not his business. Not anymore. Maybe it never was. But as he turns to see Adiyodi looking at him with that ‘what-the-fuck-do-you-want’ expression on his face, he can’t help himself.

“Have you seen Q—Quentin? Is he doing okay?” His heart is suddenly hammering in his chest and one hand comes down to grip the back of the chair he was just sitting in.

The professor’s eyebrows knit together as his mouth forms a scowl, and Eliot is sure Adiyodi is about to tell him to fuck off. But as Adiyodi’s dark eyes sweep over Eliot’s frame, he exhales harshly and says, “I haven’t seen him. But Julia and Kady go like, every fucking day or something. He’s fine. I mean, he’s in rehab, but he’s doing okay. I’m gonna go see him this week. Or next. I dunno, soon.”

Something sweeps through Eliot, a warm wave of relief at the first real piece of information he’s gotten about Quentin in a month. It’s overwhelming, and his hand grips the chair tighter as he fights against the pinpricks at the back of his eyelids. “That’s good,” he says. “Good,” he repeats, thoroughly off-kilter. “Tell him I said hi?”

Any softness on the professor’s face disappears, replaced by exasperation. “Tell him you said hi? Would your therapist be okay with that?”

“Yes,” Eliot says immediately, then “No,” as he looks to the ceiling. Vikki would tell him he has to commit to letting go of old wounds, but Quentin isn’t old. He’s the newest, freshest wound, a wound that feels like it’s never going to scab over and fall away. “Just… tell him I’m doing okay. And that I’m glad he is. Please?”

The professor stares at him for a moment, and then sighs. Looking back at his paperwork, he says, “You have a letter you want me to pass him for you? Check yes or no if you miss me?”

Eliot stares at Adiyodi, his blood rushing in his ears, and then says, “You’ll do that?”

“Fuck no,” Adiyodi says. “Get out. Go study or make amends or some shit.”

Eliot turns to go, muttering under his breath, “Not doing twelve steps,” as he closes the door behind him. He makes the quick journey to the Cottage, sliding in the magic door and exiting into the hallway just below his room. He looks at his phone as he climbs the stairs—it’s almost five. Margo should be back from her class soon, and they can figure out dinner.

Eliot has been dipping his toe back into his normal life, or his pre-Quentin life, such as it was. Going downstairs to the main floor of the Cottage, with all it’s liquor bottles and pianos and memories isn’t the big scary thing it was the first week he was out of the clinic. He’s even cooked a meal or two in the kitchen. Tonight, though, he wants to go out. Even if it’s just to a cafe, somewhere he and Bambi can sit and bitch about Adiyodi and classes, and she can tell him about the chucklefucks in Advanced Cryo that couldn’t freeze water at the North Pole and he can not think about Quentin spending Valentine’s Day alone in rehab.

Typically Eliot lies low on Valentine’s Day—he’d stay in, watch a movie and go to bed early. Getting laid is way easier on Valentine’s Day, and also the worst idea—much harder to get rid of an overeager boy if you hook up with them on the coupliest day of the year. His first year at Brakebills, he and Margo had watched _Edge of Tomorrow_ (her pick, but Eliot tends to agree that Emily Blunt’s arms more than made up for having to suffer through two hours of Tom Cruise) and the original _Sabrina_ (Eliot’s pick, Audrey Hepburn just has a way of making him feel better).

His second year had been his first Valentine’s Day with an actual boyfriend, Mike. They’d gone out to dinner and then back to his apartment to fuck until dawn. It was divine and perfect and hardly two months later, Mike was dead. And now here he is in his third year, in love with someone that he can’t even talk to. Someone he’s not supposed to want to talk to.

But he can’t stop himself. From thinking about Quentin. Picturing his face, smiling as he way-too-enthusiastically explains some plot point in a book Eliot will never read. Some nights Eliot will close his eyes and remember the hours they’d spend on the phone, imagine Quentin’s voice, raspy in his ear as he whispers all the things he wants to do to Eliot, how much he wants him. He tries to hold on to those memories, and not the ones of their last moments together. Quentin telling Eliot that what he wants doesn’t matter. Of Quentin walking away from him. Of the future they’ll never have.

He never got a response from that text message he sent to Quentin’s phone a couple of weeks ago. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. It’s possible Quentin has his phone, saw the text, and doesn’t want to respond. And Eliot doesn’t think, can’t think that’s true. Not with how destroyed he’d looked when he’d left Eliot’s infirmary room.

Eliot sits down on his bed, leaving his bedroom door open; Margo will slam it open as soon as she’s back from class anyway. He opens his phone to the text message thread. The message he’d sent two weeks ago is there, along with another he’d sent a few days ago as he sat on the steps of the TP building, smoking a cigarette.

_Dropped a beaker in lab today. It shattered all over the ground. I fixed it. Because you taught me how._

This is stupid. Sending messages into the void. But texting and phone calls were such a large part of their short relationship… and typing out and sending words to Quentin tightens a string inside Eliot’s body; one that Eliot thinks is the only thing keeping his heart together inside his chest.

_Missing you today. I miss you every day, but… Valentine’s Day is this weekend. I wish I could spend it with you._

He hits send and watches as the text pops up into their chat window. He stares at the phone, heart racing as if he expects the little dots to pop up that show a response is coming. He’s still staring at his phone when Margo walks in.

“Hey,” she says, smiling, sitting down next to him on the bed. He quickly locks his phone and puts it in his pocket as she squeezes his arm in greeting. “How was your meeting with Sexy Psychic? You still remember me?”

“Impossible to forget,” he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It was fine. It sucks to have a mind-reader as your babysitter. If I piss on the toilet seat, he’ll find out about it.”

“You know better,” she says, standing up and pulling Eliot along with her. “Let’s go. I’m craving tacos, and I told Celeste we’d meet her and her girlfriend at that new food truck.”

Eliot lets her pull him down the stairs, chattering about her day and how she’d nearly frozen Todd when he ‘got in the way’ of her spellcasting in the Arts Center. He’s laughing at her description of the to-scale replica she’s sculpting of Eliot’s dick between her breasts (“the joining of two perfect specimens,” she happily tells him) when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He freezes in place, his heart thumping in his chest as he pulls it out of his pocket.

_[Christa, 5:28pm]_

_Hey! Could I get a copy of your notes from Cortez’s class yesterday (if you managed to stay awake through it ;) )? I had to skip._

“El?” He looks up from his phone to Margo’s concerned face. “You okay? Who texted you?”

He looks back to his phone, which is slightly shaking in his hand. _Stupid_. He’d thought, for a second, maybe…

He quickly types out _Sure, can slip them under your door tonight_ , and sends it back to Christa. “I’m good. It’s just Christa. She needs notes from class.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Margo says. “Other students asking _you_ for notes? Watch out El, they might make an actual Dean’s list just for you. And a second one for your dick.”

Forcing a smirk on his face, he puts his phone back in his pocket and they start walking across the Sea to the portal to the city. “It deserves to be recognized,” he says. “Now we’re getting tacos? With Celeste? I thought we hated her.”

“That was last week. Try to keep up, El.” As Margo tries to explain exactly how Celeste got into her good graces (Eliot suspects it has something to do with her hot new girlfriend), he tries to put his dark phone and conversation with Adiyodi out of his mind. Vikki has been up his ass about how his ‘support system’ should consist of more than just Margo. A dinner with two brand-new people he’s never mentioned before should satisfy her for at least a week.

~~~

_Quentin_

“Well, I’m glad they filled the spot so Pearl doesn’t have to keep… teaching my class.” Quentin leans back in his chair as Penny stuffs another cookie in his mouth. “Or, rather, the minor mending class. At Brakebills. That now has a teacher. That is not. Me.” The thought swirls in his belly, sending a slight wave of nausea up his torso. Obviously. Henry would need to fill the spot. Minor Mending is a core class for physical magic, and a highly recommended elective for others, but for some reason, Quentin hadn’t thought about someone else teaching in his classroom. Decorating his office. Which, granted, Julia had basically decorated for him, but he’d nearly lived in that office for five years. He felt more connected to it than his room in the teacher dorms.

But he’ll never see the inside of that office again. A rightful consequence of his choices. And Quentin exhales a deep breath as he reminds himself that he has no control over his old office at Brakebills. But he has control over how he thinks about his time there. And his future. That office won’t be the last place he thinks of as his own.

“These are really good,” Penny says, oblivious to Quentin’s inner turmoil as he picks up the last cookie from the plate. “You made these?”

“Yeah, we had a baking class earlier,” Quentin says. “They let us use magic to do some of the mixing, so, was like a two-for-one kind of therapy session. I guess.” He shrugs. “How are your classes going?”

Penny swallows his last bite of cookie and reaches for a napkin to wipe his fingers. “Fine. I have three new travelers to try to keep from killing themselves, so between dealing with their crises and moving all my shit, never a dull moment.”

“Oh?” Quentin asks. “You finally moving in with Pearl for real?”

Penny gives him a look like he’s grown another head. “No. We broke up over a month ago. Just took me a minute to find a place that would take spellwork as a portion of the rent. And no way I'm staying in the faculty apartments full-time like some kind of depressed hermit.”

Quentin’s heart drops, and his brow furrows. He looks at Penny with new eyes; he doesn’t _seem_ very broken up. But this is only the second time he’s seen him since that night, two months ago now, that he got fired. Penny wouldn’t exactly confide in him even if he was suffering, Quentin realizes guiltily.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stutters, eyes darting around the room. “You guys were together so long… I hope I—”

Penny’s already waving him off. “Not everything is about you, Coldwater. We’ve been on thin ice for a while. We’ve been together for over four years, but we couldn't even commit to living together. Just took some shit for us to pull the plug, you know?” He shrugs, glancing around the room, probably looking for more cookies, Quentin thinks.

“Well, I hope you’re okay,” Quentin says, meaning it. “You deserve to be happy, Penny. You helped me out so much, with… everything, and Eliot—”

“Just—stop,” Penny says. “Thank me by getting clean and getting out of here. How much longer you got?”

“I—I dunno,” Quentin says, looking at the table top. “Dr. King—my primary therapist—says I’m doing well. That I’m getting better at dealing with the bad days and intrusive thoughts. But at least a few more weeks, I think. And even then, I have no idea where I’m gonna live or what I’m gonna do...”

Penny rolls his eyes. “As if you’re not gonna live with Julia and Kady for at least a month. Julia will shit rainbows once you’re back under her roof.” He eyes Quentin, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile. “You’ll land on your feet. You’re smarter than you think.”

“Thanks?” Quentin says, slightly disturbed at a direct compliment from Penny. “Well,” he says, grinning, “If you need a roommate—”

“No,” Penny says. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m just saying, we basically lived together in the apartments—”

“I will move back to Florida first.”

“—we already know we have similar tastes in music—”

“Fuck off.”

Quentin laughs, and just a few seconds later, Penny is shaking his head as he represses his own smile. Quentin glances at the clock over the main door, seeing that visiting hours will be ending soon. He needs to ask now, or time will run out.

“So,” he starts, grasping at the thread of confidence wafting through his chest as his heart rate speeds up. “Um. How’s Eliot doing?” He taps his finger against the table quietly, trying to still his leg from bouncing under the table.

Penny smirks at him. “I’m shocked you waited this long to ask.”

Quentin’s head drops and he chuckles humorlessly. “Yeah, well. I don’t want to like, put you in the middle. Even though I kind of already did with Henry and you being his advisor—”

“Yeah, you already tripped over your own tongue thanking me the last time I visited.” Penny’s first visit had been two weeks ago, and had consisted of a half-hour of Quentin trying not to cry as he thanked him over and over for helping keep Eliot in school while Penny kept nodding and telling him to fucking talk about something else already.

“He’s okay,” Penny says. “Not great. But he’s _okay_. And that’s all I’m saying.” Then Penny sighs, and Quentin can see an internal debate raging inside him. Penny closes his eyes, raises a hand to his forehead and says, “He asked me to tell you hi.”

Something bright and soft explodes inside Quentin’s chest, just like the first night that watch had lit up. He knows his eyes are probably bugging out of his head as he stares at Penny, mouth agape as the word repeats in his head, over and over again. “He—He said to tell me hi. _Hi_?” Quentin repeats, his voice raising an octave. “Like hi, how?”

Penny’s hand falls to the table top, and when he meets Quentin’s gaze, he looks very, very tired. “What the fuck are you asking me?”

Quentin halfway stands up, and then sits down again in his seat, his back rimrod straight as he pulls his chair closer to the table, leaning over it, towards Penny. “Like, how did he _say_ it?” Quentin asks, pushing his hair behind his ears with both hands.

Penny’s gaze flickers over to the exit, and then back to Quentin. “Like. Hi? Hello.”

“Yeah, but _how_ did he say it?”

“Okay, I’m leaving.” Penny stands up abruptly, and Quentin stands with him.

“Okay, I’m sorry, just, um—” Quentin’s mind is whirling. The watch was one thing, but sending a message, even if it was just a word, was like, beyond—

“Will you bring him a letter?” Quentin blurts out. Penny stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Fucking—No, Coldwater. I’m no one’s fucking taxi and I’m definitely not the goddamn _mailman_.”

“I know I have no right to ask. I’ve been working up the courage to send them—I think if I don’t give them to you now, I never will. I told him I wouldn’t contact him again, but with the watch, and that message—I didn’t—” Quentin sighs, trying to slow down all the thoughts bouncing off the walls of his brain. “I want to make sure he knows how much he means to me. And to just… say hi back,” he finishes weakly. “I have it already written, my therapist said I should write letters to tell people things I can’t—”

“Fine.”

“—say directly because I’m _here_ and they’re _there_ and I need to express my—wait, what?” Quentin blinks at Penny, not sure if he heard correctly.

Penny sighs, his eyes looking to the heavens as he says, practically through clenched teeth, “Go scurry back to your room and get your motherfucking love letters before I change my goddamn mind.” Quentin stares at him, and when Penny tilts his head and widens his eyes in exasperation, he turns and speed-walks back to his room.

He pulls open his nightstand drawer, and there are two letters addressed to Eliot—the first one he’d written after two weeks here, and another he’d written just last week. He hesitates—the most recent is the best one to send, at least in terms of shit he wrote and crossed out, but he has no idea which one it is.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, grabbing them both and heading back into the visitation room. People are milling around, and Quentin looks up at the clock over the main door, realizing visiting hours are over.

“Thank you so much,” he says, striding over to Penny and shoving the letters into his waiting hand. “For visiting, and this. Penny, I really can’t—”

“Don’t mention it,” he says as he tucks the letters into his jacket. “Seriously. If your boy didn’t look as pathetic as you do right now, I wouldn’t bother.”

Quentin’s eyebrows raise as he digests Penny’s words. “He looks—”

“Oh my god, I’m leaving for real this time,” Penny says. He turns and leaves the clinic, not looking back once as Quentin stares after him.

Quentin walks slowly back to his room, his hands trembling slightly. _Shit_. What the fuck did he do? He poured his heart out in those letters, which was the point of writing them, but he didn’t actually think Eliot would ever _read_ them. That Quentin would ever actually send them.

Well. He did it, just like Dr. King had suggested. And now it’s out of his control. He inhales deeply as he lays back on his bed, thinking about the past two months.

He’s getting better. He thinks. A single day doesn’t pass that he doesn’t wish he had a tumbler of whiskey or a joint between his lips, but the cravings are less intense. It had taken a month, but he’d finally told Dr. King everything about Alice. It had been an intense session, and they’d given him a Xanax that night to help him sleep. The nightmares had almost immediately lessened in frequency and intensity, and he no longer needed potions to sleep through the night. Their sessions now revolve around building his coping skills and trying to retrain his brain to not automatically tell him he’s the scum of the Earth every time something goes wrong.

He can leave at any time. But he knows he won’t be able to until he’s confident he won’t go straight to a bar once he’s left to his own devices. He’s getting closer. But he’s not there yet.

Eliot comes up in every session, something Quentin doesn’t think will ever change. He knows their relationship was wrong—regardless of how talented a magician Eliot is, no matter how much Quentin loves him, there is no justification for Quentin, as a teacher, pursuing a relationship with a student. No matter how big their dick is. Something Quentin has mentioned way too many times to Dr. King.

_“I know I shouldn’t have done it. But I’ll never regret it. I’ve never felt so—complete before.” Quentin’s hands were clasped in his lap, and he met Dr. King’s comforting gaze. “If I wasn’t a teacher, and he wasn’t a student, and we’d just met in a bar or wherever, I’d have loved him just as much. Even if there was no sexual component, which was, god, mind-blowing—”_

_“So you’ve said,” Dr. King said quickly, writing a note. “And do you think this justifies your relationship? Made it okay, that even if he hadn’t been a student, you still would have engaged in a relationship with Eliot?”_

_“No—No, I know it doesn’t make it okay.” Quentin squirmed in his seat, looking at the floor next to Dr. King’s chair, where a stain discolored the carpet. “I guess I’m just saying I didn’t decide to fuck a student. I fell in love with a man that happened to be a student. I wouldn’t be here if not for him—and I don’t just mean because I got fired. He makes me want to be that person I was before Alice died. Or, god, better than that person, because honestly I was pretty fucking selfish even then. I should have told Eliot no. That maybe we could revisit after he graduated.” He shrugged. “When we were together, I drank less, smoked less. I just didn’t feel the urge as much. For years, I’ve only wanted to forget, but Eliot… even if he never wants to see me again, I know I’ll be better just from having him in my life for a little while.” He looked back up at Dr. King. “Does that make me a horrible person? That after Alice died, I couldn’t keep my shit together, but with Eliot, I’m here, trying?”_

_Dr. King gave him a kind smile. “Do you think Alice made you a better person?”_

_“Oh, god yes,” he says instantly, almost chuckling. “I was such a… a snob and kind of a pretentious ass when I started at Brakebills. I mean, I'm still a pretentious ass, just like… quieter now? She never hesitated to tell me to stop being a douche. And she taught me so much about how to be a good boyfriend.” He frowned. “I guess I forgot all of that when I started seeing Eliot. I jerked him around so much.”_

_Dr. King hummed. “Losing someone you love is hard in any circumstance. The way you lost Alice, the abuse from the Niffin, the trauma you sustained from that—Quentin, even the healthiest, most well-adjusted person would have struggled at every level. Combine it with the fact that you had little to no mental health support, you weren’t on your meds… many people would have fared far worse than you did. How quickly you and Eliot entered into your relationship, the intensity—you can’t expect yourself to deal with those emotions in the perfect way. If there even is a perfect way.”_

_Quentin nodded, wiping away a tear that creased down his cheek._

_“Losing Alice and losing Eliot are two very different situations,” Dr. King continued. “You still have many unresolved feelings you need to work through regarding your relationship with Alice and her death. Eliot… he’s alive. There’s hope, a chance to make amends. And it’s natural to ‘try,’ where with Alice, your instinct was to give up. So no, Quentin, this doesn’t make you a horrible person. I just think it makes you human.”_

_Quentin grabbed a tissue and wiped his cheeks as they wrote down a few notes. He watched them, thinking about his therapy sessions for the past few months, and a stab of guilt hit him in his gut. He cleared his throat, and Dr. King looked up at him expectantly._

_“I have something to tell you,” he said. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”_

_Dr. King’s brow furrowed as he told them about the pocket watch, and how Eliot has been reaching out via the summoning spell. Quentin couldn’t tell if they’re angry or not, that he’s been hiding this thing that goes against all the moving on he’s supposed to be doing._

_“How long has this been going on?” they asked._

_“Little over a month,” he said, and Dr. King’s eyebrows flew up into their hairline. Quentin’s heart pounded faster in his chest as he realized he may have seen the watch light up for the last time. “I know that you probably think I’m like, using it to fixate on my relationship and keep myself from moving on,” he said hurriedly. “But it’s just. This symbol. Of possibility, you know? Something to hope for. I don’t like, sit by my bed waiting for it to light up; it’s pretty random when it does. I understand if I can’t—keep it anymore. I’m sorry for not saying anything earlier. I guess it’s like… I can’t be that fucked up if I don’t, like, talk about it. But I know that’s now how you—I get better.” He cleared his throat and stared down at his hands clasped in his lap._

_The silence stretched on, and Quentin was convinced Dr. King was going to just kick him out by the time they started speaking. “Thank you for telling me, Quentin,” they started. “That took a lot of courage. You can keep the pocket watch. I need you to keep talking to me about it every session. If it becomes an unhealthy attachment, we’ll have to revisit. And I’m going to have a ward added to your room that monitors that spell; I’m surprised it slipped through as it is.” They gave him an appraising look. “It must be quite intricate.”_

_Quentin’s face heated up, and a small smile graced his face as he looked down at the floor. “It’s a modified phosphoromancy spell, one that Alice and I worked on years ago. I tweaked it so it would attach to a certain object.” He let out a sigh of relief as it settled down in his bones that the one connection he has to Eliot won’t be taken away. At least right now._

_He jerked his head back to Dr. King when they asked, “Have you given any more thought to sending those letters you wrote to Eliot?”_

He’d thought about it every day since he’d written them, at least the second letter. And now they're sent. Probably the largest over-reaction to the word ‘hi’ in history, but it’s done. He hopes he doesn’t upset Eliot, or freak him out, pull him out of some blissful new reality he’s found that doesn’t include Quentin.

He jams his airpods in his ears and turns on the little MP3 player Julia had brought for him. Grabbing his book from the nightstand, he hopes he can distract himself from the thought of Eliot reading his letters at any moment.

~~~

_Eliot_

_[3/13 11:42pm]_

_i miss u_

_srry im little drunk. k a lot. rough week. rough forever._

_[3/13 11:57pm]_

_im gonna be so bad at me tmrw when i look back at these messages. call that future eliot problem. i miss u so much. still love u. margo says i need to move on but_

_[3/14 12:05am]_

_just wish i could talk to you. hear your voice. i don’t mean phone sex. i mean that would be fine. too._

_uh oh. Bambi coming. Not in the good wya. Gotta go._

_[3/14 12:07am]_

_< 2 (random string of emojis)_

Eliot sighs, shame and regret filling up his chest. God, he hopes Quentin’s phone gets destroyed while he’s in rehab. Or just the sim card. Dropped in water, stepped on, everything on it completely unrecoverable. Eliot has all the good pictures they’d taken saved anyway. And all the dick pics, good or not, saved in his folder titled ‘dick pics.’

He’s spent the past week wondering if he should send another text to apologize for his drunk texts, but what would he say? _Hey, so just ignore the previous four messages—Todd stole my phone. I got hacked. It was a butt text?_ He should delete the entire thread, but honestly every time he even thinks about drinking again, he can just look at these texts and remember that he makes _bad fucking decisions_ when he’s not sober.

As he goes to close the thread, he looks again at the contact at the top of the text window. It had once said “Brian,” and then Eliot had changed it to “Q” when Quentin had gotten fired, figuring who fucking cares since Quentin wouldn’t be calling him anytime soon. Now it reads “TEXT AGAIN AND LOSE YOUR BALLS,” thanks to Margo and her incredibly effective coercion tactics.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he locks his phone and slides it in his pocket. The door to Professor Adiyodi’s office is still firmly closed; Eliot is waiting for him to finish with his current meeting so they can have their weekly check-in. This one is probably going to leave him walking funny; the professor always knows when he steps even an inch out of line, and there’s no way he (and probably the entire campus) hasn’t heard about Eliot’s little tumble off the wagon this past weekend.

It’s been nearly a week since he was stupid enough to think that he could handle a party at the Castle. After all, he’s been going to therapy semi-regularly for almost two months, and he was actually passing all his classes. Like, on his own, without seducing anyone so they would do his homework or pass him test answers. He deserved a break. A little celebration. Just one shot or two, he could handle that. And nothing more, he knew his limits and he wasn’t an idiot.

_“You’re a fucking idiot,” Margo sneered. “And so am I. Dammit, Eliot. Are you even going to therapy? I’m sure as fuck still paying for it.” Then, after a pause, “Well, my dad is.”_

_“Yes,” Eliot groaned, rolling over and shoving his face into the pillow. Hangovers are a bitch, and definitely something he hasn’t missed. “I only missed a few this month. Can we talk about this later?” He pulled the duvet over his head._

_“No,” she said, yanking the covers off him. He groaned, clamping his eyes shut against the sunlight streaming into the room. “God, Eliot, do you know how I felt? Watching you stumble around the Castle like some shit-for-brains first year that couldn't handle a few jello shots? I nearly hauled your ass straight to the infirmary again. Maybe I should.” She sighed, sitting down hard on the side of the bed. “Maybe you need more help than I can give you.”_

_Something in her tone pierced through the thick fog in Eliot’s head, and a heavy weight settled on his chest. “No,” Eliot said, struggling to sit up. “I’m sorry. I messed up. It was going to happen eventually, right?" He ignored the pounding in his head and sat next to her. "I just—I miss him.”_

_Margo reached an arm around him, pulling him against her side, tucking herself under his chin. “I know, baby,” she said. “I hardly knew the little nerd, and I miss him. Feel kinda bad I got him fired. But this isn’t the way.”_

_“Since when are you a Mandalorian?” Eliot chuckled, and then groaned as he realized he was never going to escape the Star Wars references from forming in his mind._

_“As soon as I got a baby to take care of,” Margo said, poking Eliot in his side. “And you’re not half as cute as that little green puppet.”_

_“Rude,” Eliot says. Then his voice dropped to a whisper as he pressed a kiss into the top of her head. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” He swallowed. "I'll try not to let it happen again," he amended._

_“You’re not as sorry now as you’re gonna be once you look at your texts from last night,” Margo said, pulling away. “I made some changes to your contact list. And you’re seeing Vikki today; she fit you in when I told her you went all 80’s RDJ. Now get your ass up and get dressed. So you can make like 2000’s RDJ and get your shit together.”_

_“Mmmm, and fuck Captain America?”_

_“Only in fanfic, babe. Maybe you can text Quentin for his favorites. Now I’m serious, get in the fucking shower.”_

The door opens and Eliot jerks his head out of the memory, doing a double-take at the student that leaves Adiyodi’s office. He recognizes her as the traveler, Simone, that had taken him to the infirmary that night he’d collapsed. She gives him a small smile as she walks away. He’s seen her a few times since that night, with Todd. Good for him. Probably not so good for her, he thinks.

Adiyodi holds the door open for Eliot, gesturing him in. Eliot can feel the professor’s eyes on him as he quickly steps into the office and sits down in the chair in front of Adiyodi’s desk.

“How’s Simone doing?” Eliot asks as the professor steps around and sits down in his chair.

“Better than you,” he says. “Not getting drunk at parties and living in denial over her alcoholism, anyway.”

_Guess we’re jumping right into it._ “I’m not in denial,” he says, feeling the scowl form on his face. “I just—I thought I could handle it. I was wrong.”

“No shit,” Adiyodi says, shaking his head. “What happened?”

Eliot shrugs. “Nothing _happened_. I was stupid. Thought one drink would be fine. That led to a second drink, and a third, and then Margo was yelling at me and then I was talking to my therapist. Pretty typical weekend, for most people.”

“Yeah, well it can’t be for _you_.”

“I know.” Eliot stops himself from crossing his arms as he glares at the professor, trying not to look too much like a petulant child.

Adiyodi sighs, pressing his lips together. “I gotta be honest, Eliot—I don’t think you do.”

Eliot swallows down the annoyance building up in his chest. Margo, Professor Adiyodi—they have a good reason to ride his ass. He’s fucked up a lot of shit in his life, and they’re looking out for him. It doesn’t make it any less shitty to realize no one has any faith in him.

“I fucking _know_ , Professor,” he says darkly. “I _get_ it. I fucked up. _Again_. And if I do it one more time, and someone could die. _Again_. Maybe me, or at least the version of me sitting here in front of you right now.” He pauses, squeezing the bridge of his nose, breathing quickly as he tries to calm himself down.

“Look,” Eliot continues. “I’ve talked to my therapist four times since last weekend, and I went to group and I even fucking _shared_ about how shitty it felt after the first shot. About how I just couldn’t stop, because everyone’s been _waiting_ for me to fuck it up, so I might as well give them what they want and get it over with, right?”

“No one’s waiting—”

“Bullshit,” Eliot says, straightening up in his seat. “You hear _everything_ like fucking Edward Cullen. Every time I come in here you have a list of sins you want me to atone for. Well, you wanna talk about how well that system worked out for me in high school?”

Adiyodi rolls his eyes, mumbling something under his breath. “No,” he says shortly. “I put my ass on the line for you, Waugh.”

“I never _asked you_ to do that,” Eliot retorts. Then he sighs, slumping back in the seat. “Look, I appreciate it. I do. I don’t know why you decided I was your pick of the charity cases, but thank you. But between you and Margo, it’s just… you’re watching every step I take like I’m destined to fuck up. I know what Quentin gave up for me. _Because_ of me, I don’t know. It’s a lot.” He suddenly feels exhausted, and he leans his head back, his eyes closing as he tips his face to the ceiling.

“It is,” the professor agrees. Eliot tilts his head forward in surprise, watching as Adiyodi lightly thumps his fingers against his desk. “You’re right, it’s a lot. And for the record… before last weekend, you’ve been doing great. Going to all your classes, no parties, pulling together a damn good thesis, from what Cortez tells me. I don’t want to see you lose all that progress because of one bad day.”

A familiar warmth comes over Eliot’s face, and he clears his throat as he pushes back against the wave of emotion swelling up inside him. He is _not_ going to cry in Adiyodi’s office, no fucking way. He does enough of that shit at therapy.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Look, I know, once an addict, always an addict. I was slipping on going to therapy. I’m on Margo’s watch list, and I can _do_ this. I was thinking of moving out of the Cottage, to the first-year dorms, where there’s not so many memories, but… I don’t think that will help anything.” And selfishly, he didn’t want to have to give up the attic bedroom. The last physical connection he has to Quentin. “There will be temptation no matter where I live or what I do and I just have to… accept that. And figure out how to deal with it.”

“You will. Figure it out.” The professor is looking at him with a small amount of what Eliot thinks is respect in his eyes. “There is no way I’m gonna get lucky enough to not have to deal with your whiny ass for at least another year.”

Eliot can’t help the chuckle that escapes as the tension leaves his body. “Thank you,” he says. “For helping keep me here. I’m doing my best, and the one person I want to talk to about it, I can’t. Some days are harder than others.”

The professor nods slowly, shifting in his seat. “I did.”

“Did what?” Eliot asks, tilting his head slightly.

“I talked to Quentin,” Adiyodi says, sighing. Eliot sits up a straighter, leaning slightly forward. The professor hadn’t said anything about Quentin since that day over a month ago when Eliot had asked him to tell Quentin he said ‘hi’… which, of all the messages he could have sent, that was probably the most pathetic one Eliot could have picked. _I’m thinking about you_ , _I hope you’re doing better in recovery than I am_ , _Do you have the pocket watch and do you feel it when I do the summoning spell or is that just a magic dick in your pocket?_ _Anything_ would have been better than _hi_.

“Oh?” Eliot says, his eyes darting around the office. “How did that go?”

Adiyodi breaks into a smile, laughing. “Dude, you have zero chill.” He stands up, going over to his briefcase. “I’ve seen him twice. The first time he was so up in his head about how bad he felt that I had to clean up his mess here that I forgot to give him your _very important_ message. I visited again a few days ago, and I remembered.” He pulls out a couple of envelopes and flips them over, scanning the front. “He freaked out about as much as you are right now.” He tosses the envelopes down on the desk. They land face down, and Eliot’s eyes widen as he realizes Quentin sent something back.

“He asked me to give you these. I am _not_ your fucking errand boy and I am _not_ delivering any letters back to him. Figure that shit out on your own.” Eliot reaches one hand to the envelopes— _letters_ , so slowly it’s as if he’s afraid they might disintegrate the second he touches them.

“I didn’t read them,” the professor says. “But hopefully whatever they say will help you remember why you’re trying so hard.”

Eliot nods dumbly, finally picking up the envelopes. They’re thin, maybe just a page or two each. He turns them over in his hands, focusing on the front, where _Eliot_ is scrawled in a handwriting so familiar his eyes are burning.

This isn’t a prickle along the back of his neck when he casts the summoning spell, or a response to a text Eliot sent into the void. These are Quentin’s _real_ thoughts and words that he’s holding in his hands. After two months of nothing but tears and memories, all he can do is try to stop his hands from shaking as he shoves the letters in his inner jacket pocket. He turns to leave, and the Professor’s sharp voice behind him makes Eliot realize they were in the middle of a conversation.

“Eliot,” Adiyodi says. “You hear me, man?”

“Uh, sorry,” Eliot says, turning back to the professor. “What did you say?”

“Julia said you could text or call her if you want to talk.”

Eliot stares blankly at Adiyodi. “Julia?” he asks in confusion, his mind thinking only of the papers burning a hole in his pocket. “Talk about what?”

“Okay, clearly I should have gotten all the talking out of the way before I gave you those. You’re not going to operate any heavy machinery anytime soon, right?” At Eliot’s frown, he continues, “Julia, Quentin’s best friend? What do you think she wants to talk about, man, your favorite cocktail recipe? She said you have her number and to call her if you need someone to talk to.”

“Uh, okay,” Eliot says, his mind struggling to catch up. “I will.” He stands there, looking at the professor.

“That’s it,” Adiyodi says. “You can go and do whatever it is you’re gonna do while you read those letters. Thank god you have better mental wards than Quentin.”

Eliot nods once and strides out the door, the envelopes brushing against his chest with every step. He wants to hide out next to the Consciousness Building and read them right the fuck now, but he doesn’t want to have whatever kind of breakdown Quentin’s letters are going to inspire right next to a building full of psychics.

He walks quickly back to the Cottage, pulling out his phone and texting Margo on the way. He hopes she doesn’t have any plans for tonight. And tomorrow. She should just clear out her whole week. He’s going to need her.

~~~

_Quentin_

“I got your little _amends_ letter.”

Quentin swallows the lump in his throat as he looks across the table, the same one he and Penny had sat at two weeks ago. He had been expecting to see Penny again when they’d told him he had a visitor; he didn’t expect Julia until tomorrow and no one else visits him. He’d tried not to get his hopes up that it would be Eliot, that he’d gotten Quentin’s letters and wanted to see him in person. He’d been wrong on both counts, and now he was trying not to let his terror show as he looked into the dark, angry eyes of Margo Hanson.

He should have seen this coming. He doesn’t know _why_ he picked Margo as the next person he owed an apology to—well, that’s not true. He picked her because she was the most important person to Eliot, and even the stupidest part of him knew he would have no chance with Eliot if she wasn’t at least tolerant of his presence. And with how Margo looked the last time he saw her, Quentin knew he had some world-class groveling in his future.

“It’s, um, not really an ‘amends’ letter,” he starts quietly. She’s just staring at him, her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched as Quentin’s eyes dart between her and the exit back to his room. “I’m not doing, like twelve steps, per se, they offer a few different philosophies here, and—”

“Did you not write me a letter saying how sorry you were for all the bad shit you did to Eliot and therefore me and ask for forgiveness?”

Quentin squirms in his seat, shoving his hands under his thighs so he doesn’t jam them in his hair or throw them up in the air like he just doesn’t care. With the anxiety spiking in his brain right now, anything is possible. “I don’t think I technically _asked_ —”

“It was a good letter, I’ll give you that,” she says, leaning forward. “I especially liked the part about how Xander was able to forgive Willow for trying to destroy the world, so therefore forgiving _you_ for nearly _killing my best friend_ should be possible.”

“That is _not_ what I _meant_ ,” Quentin says loudly. He glances around and leans forward, speaking in a lower voice. “I was trying to demonstrate that the strength of bonds formed through friends can be stronger than blood and I wanted to pick a reference you’d… enjoy.” He sighs and leans his elbow so the table, giving up and shoving his hands in his hair. “And I fucked it up. As usual.”

“Calm your titties, Coldwater,” Margo says in a wry tone. “You didn’t fuck it up.”

Quentin raises his head and lets his hands drop down to the table. “I didn’t?”

“I’m not saying you’re forgiven. Far from it.” Her eyes are just as deadly as he remembers, even as a smile plays at the corner of her lips. “But I won’t kill you on sight next time you try to talk to Eliot.”

Quentin’s heart swirls at the mention of Eliot’s name. He looks down at his hands, and then back to Margo. “You think he’ll talk to me again?”

Margo snorts. Then she clasps her hands on the table in front of her. “Look, _Quentin_ ,” she starts, that same inflection from the first day he’d told her (Eliot) to call him by his first name, “I know you want me to tell you that Eliot’s spent every night since he got your letters rubbing them all over his face while he cries and jerks off.”

Quentin’s mouth pulls down into a grimace, and he says, “Uh, I don’t actually—”

“Well he’s _not_. He’s doing just fine. Better than he has in the past two months, actually.”

Quentin draws his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard as his shoulders hunch in. _Stupid, stupid._ He shouldn’t have sent the letters. He’d told Eliot he wouldn’t contact him again, but with the watch spell, which was still lighting up, even more since he’d sent them, he’d thought—well, it doesn’t matter what he thought. He was wrong. “I, uh, okay. I get it. I told him I wasn’t going to contact him again, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry you had to come all the way down here—”

“Oh my god,” Margo says, rolling her eyes. “I thought being sober was supposed to make you quicker on the uptake. He’s been _better_ , Quentin. Since you went all Mr. Darcy on him. Going to classes, all his therapy appointments. Even doing his homework. Like, _all_ of it.”

“He’s in therapy?” Quentin asks. “I know he said he needed to get some help. I didn’t realize—”

“Look, Eliot is the one who should tell you whatever he wants you to know. And I really didn’t come here to talk about him.” He watches as Margo looks around her, taking in the other patients talking to loved ones or sitting quietly. “Real cheerful place they got going on here,” she comments.

“It’s not so bad,” Quentin says, trying to roll with the subject change. He glances around the threadbare room they use for visiting hours—it’s one of the larger rooms near the front of the building, and it’s also used for yoga in the mornings, dance classes some evenings (Quentin attended _one_ and does not want to discuss it), and other random seminars and meetings. “The food is great. There’s a pool and gym in the basement, a huge library on the second floor. And the staff…” He glances over at Chris sitting at the front desk, who gives him an encouraging nod and a smile. “They’re pretty great. A lot better than places I’ve been at before. Knowing that everyone here has dealt with magic and the shit it can bring down on you… helps a lot.”

Margo follows his glance to Chris, and she turns back to him suspiciously. “You fuck him?”

“ _Jesus_ , Margo, _no_ ,” Quentin says, sitting up straighter. “Absolutely not, I would _never_. Even if I wasn’t completely gone over Eliot, I went through enough shit—” he leans closer and lowers his voice— “to not fuck anyone in charge of my medication.”

“Just checking,” she says. She sighs, her expression uncharacteristically uneasy. “Look. Listen fucking closely, because you’ll never hear me say this ever again in your pathetic life.” She pauses way too dramatically, and finally says, “I’m sorry, alright,” spitting out the words like they’re salt in her mouth.

Quentin watches her warily, not really trusting whatever the fuck is happening right now. “Okay… _you’re_ sorry? For what?”

“I know you didn’t make Eliot take those pills. That night. Or pour the vodka down his throat. Or the whiskey. And the bourbon. I didn’t know Fogg was there when I…” she trailed off, and Quenti thinks it may be the first time in her life she’s at a loss for words.

“Ripped me several new assholes?” he asks quietly. “I deserved every one of them. Margo, you have nothing to—”

“Do you even _realize_ ,” she interrupts, one finger in the air inches in front of his face, “how many people I apologize to? You are joining a very small and elite group of people, and every word out of your mouth is making me consider rescinding my benevolent offer of mercy.”

Quentin looks at Margo for a moment, his mouth hanging open, and he snaps it shut and nods, gesturing for her to continue.

“You did a lot of shit wrong, Quentin. But I read your letters. Mine and Eliot’s. I know you know that. You didn’t deserve to get fired. You were one of the only teachers that actually gave a shit.” She shifts in her seat as Quentin resists the urge to tell her that she’s wrong, he deserved to get fired ten times over. “Eliot, before you… it wasn’t good,” she starts, her voice strained. “And with you, even with all your baggage and bullshit… he was better. Happier than he had been in a long time.”

Quentin inhales a sharp breath, her words causing his heart to leap for joy and rip in half all at once. Eliot was happy. _They_ were happy. Until Quentin fucked it all up.

Margo looks at him then with eyes so wide and vulnerable it makes his chest ache. “So I need you to get your shit together. Eliot’s working his ass off. You better be too. Because I’ve already pulled him back from the edge twice. I can’t handle a third time.”

Quentin holds her gaze, a comforting warmth spreading through his limbs even as tears prickle at his eyes. “I am, Margo,” he says quietly. “Believe me, I know how much I fucked up. I regret it every day. I just hope when I get out of here, he’s willing to give me another chance.”

Margo raises her eyebrows. “Well. That all depends on you, Quentin.” She stands up, grabbing her bag from the table. “And don’t think,” she tells him, any warmth in her eyes chased away by her familiar steel gaze, “That just because I came here today I’m on your side. There’s only _one_ side in this, and that’s _Eliot’s_. I’m going to make sure that, even for a conversation, there will be an _astonishing_ amount of groveling involved.”

Quentin stands with her, shoving his hands in his pockets as they walk slowly to the entrance. “Never even crossed my mind,” he says. “Um, Margo?” he asks when they reach the door. She turns to him, standing on the threshold with one hand on her hip, waiting.

“Eliot didn’t… send anything with you?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the hope out of his voice. He knew a visit wasn’t likely, but a letter, a message, a rude hand gesture—he’d take anything.

For the first time since she walked in, Margo’s expression holds a hint of sympathy. “No,” she says. “He’s not there yet.” The unspoken _He may never be_ hangs in the air between them.

Quentin nods, looking down to the floor. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “For visiting. It’s good to see you.”

“Chin up, Coldwater,” she says. “You think Jane Chatwin would have ever taken down the Watcherwoman if she sat around and pouted all day?” With one last smile over her shoulder, she walks out of the clinic.

~~~

_Eliot_

“Best behavior, Bambi. Please.”

He feels more than sees Margo’s incredulous gaze as they stand in the hallway, waiting for the door in front of them to open. “ _Me_? They better be on _their_ best behavior, it’s their best friend who—”

“Hi!” Eliot says brightly as the door opens, revealing Julia’s smiling face.

“Hey!” Julia said, gesturing them inside. “Wow, how many people did you plan on cooking for?” she asked as she took one of the grocery bags Margo was holding out of her hands. “I’m Julia, by the way.”

“The entire student body,” Margo mumbles, setting the remaining bags on the counter.

“I enjoy options,” Eliot said, surveying the kitchen. It was nearly sparkling, so clean he wondered if it was ever really used. Well, he’d put it through its paces tonight. He unbuttons his cuffs, shoves his shirtsleeves up his arms, and starts pulling groceries out of the bags—raw chicken pieces, potatoes, assorted vegetables.

When he’d texted Julia a few days ago, just to say that he appreciated her message through Penny and he hoped Quentin was doing well, he figured they’d exchange pleasantries, she’d satisfy whatever unnecessary guilt she felt about him almost drinking himself to death, and that would be that. She’d texted him back during her lunch, where she joked that the omelete he’d made was better than the to-go tiramisu she’d brought back home with her. He’d texted back that Margo said his tiramisu was the best she’d ever tasted, and she’d said she’d love to meet Margo and his tiramisu—and now he’s trying to not rip out the hair he’d spent an hour perfecting before portaling over and walking across the city with four bags of groceries and supplies and Margo bitching the entire way.

He probably shouldn’t be here. Having dinner with his ex-whatever’s best friends? Vikki hadn’t told him _not_ to go, but had said that while he should continue to expand his support system, he should also consider his commitment to ‘working on himself without distractions,’ whatever that meant. Margo had raised an eyebrow when he’d asked her to come, but hadn’t put up much of a fight once he mentioned the tiramisu. That had changed when he asked her to actually carry something without magic; he was worried the spells might affect the quality of the ingredients, and he hadn’t spent an hour picking out the perfect out-of-season summer squash for nothing.

“Can I get you two something to drink?” Julia asks. “I have Diet Coke, oh, and a Soda Stream! I used the gift card Quentin got me for Christmas to get it.”

Margo opens her mouth, and Eliot shoots her a look, _knowing_ she’s about to say something insulting about homemade fizzy water. She rolls her eyes and says, “Diet Coke would be just _fantastic_ , Julia,” in a tone so syrupy Eliot halfway thinks he should be serving pancakes.

He watches Margo out of the corner of his eye as she walks slowly around the large front room—he’d told her the penthouse was swanky, but he doesn’t think she was expecting this.

“Nice place,” Margo says. “Not really what I pictured for Quentin’s best friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Julia asks, pouring Margo’s drink. “What were you picturing?”

“Less high-rise penthouse, more... hipster Brooklyn walkup,” she pauses by the large bookshelf that lines one wall, running one fingertip along the spines. “I can definitely see him _here_ , though.”

“Wow.” Kady walks into the kitchen, surveying the food spread out on the island as Eliot starts pulling pots out of the cabinets. “You know, I wasn’t serious when I said you could come over and cook for us.”

“Bullshit,” Julia says, laughing, handing Margo her glass. “When I told her your offer, she nearly yanked the phone out of my hand to see if you could come over immediately.” Kady rolls her eyes, and Julia says, “This is Margo.”

Kady nods at her as she looks at the food laid out on the counter. “So what are we having?”

Eliot turns back from the refrigerator, where he’s put the sponge cake he made earlier today for the tiramisu. “Well, to start we have dried apricot blue cheese canapes.” He gestures to a tray on the far edge of the island, which Kady immediately gravitates to.

“Fancy,” she remarks, eyeing the tray.

“Go ahead,” he says to her arched eyebrow, and she immediately pops one in her mouth.

She nods her head as she chews, picking up another one as she says, “That’s good shit.”

Eliot nods, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. He figured Kady was an easy mark, and if she’s impressed by goat cheese smeared on apricots, then the rest of the night should be smooth sailing.

Which. He shouldn’t care this much, be _this_ worked up over a dinner. Margo had threatened to shove a Xanax down his throat if he didn’t stop worrying over what kind of vegetables Kady preferred and if he should make the entire tiramisu now or assemble it there and, for fuck’s sake, if they couldn’t have wine with dinner, then _what even was the point?!_

He’d pushed past all his minor breakdowns, put on his best tie and vest, and now that he’s in his element, dicing vegetables while the oven preheats, he exhales a slow breath, imagining all the stress from the day flowing out with it. He zones in on seasoning the chicken and vegetables when he looks up to see Kady watching him.

“Need any help?” she asks, the almost tender look in her eyes softening the smirk playing on her lips.

“Sure,” Eliot says, after surveying the kitchen for a moment. “Can you grab a baking sheet?” She moves to open a cabinet and he looks across the room, seeing Julia and Margo in deep conversation by the bookshelf. “That happened faster than I thought,” he says softly.

“Hmm?” Kady asks, walking over with the requested baking sheet. “Oh,” she says, following his gaze across the room. “I’m sure once they’re done comparing notes on you and Quentin they’ll move on to Fillory or Westeros or Tortall or whatever.”

He sets her to work finishing chopping up the zucchini and coating all the vegetables in olive oil and spices (“ _Evenly_ ,” he tells her sternly, ignoring her answering eye roll), and tries to focus on prepping the chicken and peeling potatoes and not on the two magicians across the room who he has no doubt are dissecting the past few months of his life. He’s so focused that he almost jumps out of his skin when Kady gently nudges his arm.

“Ready for the oven.” She laughs as he sags against the counter, one hand dramatically over his heart as he catches his breath. “You know, you don’t have to try so hard. Or worry.” His eyes dart between Kady and the food on the counter. “You make Q happy. That’s really the only requirement we have around here.”

Eliot turns back to the stove top, flipping on the burner under his cast-iron skillet he’d seasoned earlier that day. His pulse picks up at the mention of Quentin; he’d thought after this many weeks, his body would calm the fuck down when his name came up, but it’s the same now as it was the day after Quentin had walked off campus for the last time. Maybe even worse, now that he’s heard from Quentin. Read his letters, so many times he charmed the paper so the ink wouldn’t weather away.

_You’re still the first person I think about when I wake up every morning, and your face is the last thing I picture when I fall asleep every night. I think about how beautiful you looked under the starry sky at the cabin. After you told me about Mike that night, I wanted to tell you about Alice. I almost did. I wish I had._

_I wish a lot of things. But mostly I wish you happiness. Whether you’re next to me or not, I will forever sleep better at night knowing that you’re happy._

Eliot turns to the sink, filling up a pot with water for the potatoes. “How’s he doing? His letter said you visit often,” Eliot says, trying to smother the flame of guilt flickering up in his gut. He’d spent too many hours thinking about visiting Quentin. What it would feel like the moment their eyes met again. The thought of seeing him again makes Eliot’s heart soar and his gut twist all at the same time. He wants it so much, more than anything, but eventually, Eliot would have to leave. And he knows that walking past that shelf full of liquor in the Cottage would be so much harder if he had to do it after leaving Quentin.

And every time he’d tried to put pen to paper, something inside him revolted, and his mind would white out. No words would come, and he’d stared at the empty paper for a half hour.

Then he’d grabbed his phone. And just like that, it poured out of him. Maybe the thought that Quentin might never see his texts made it easier to say what he felt. That was probably something he should talk to Vikki about.

_I read your letters. Thank you for sending them. It makes it easier. To do the hard things. Knowing you’re doing them too._

_I let Margo read them. And I read hers, the one you sent through BB post. Don’t you dare tell her I told you, but she teared up. You have a way with words, Q. I miss listening to you talk. Your voice in my ear when I'd fall asleep at night._

_I know I’m probably going to regret sending all of these texts when you get your phone back. But it feels good to tell you. Or the void, I guess. That I miss you._

_I'm sorry that I’m not ready to see you now._

_But I will be._

“Yeah, me or Julia visit twice a week,” Kady says, bringing Eliot’s thoughts back to the present. Her arms are crossed as she watches him; guess she’s giving up on actually _helping_. Which is probably for the best, Eliot thinks as he looks over at the butchered zucchini on the baking sheet. No finesse whatsoever. “He’s doing good,” she continues. “Better than I expected.”

“Yeah?” he asks, turning the burner under the water up high so it’ll boil quicker. He looks over at Kady as he drizzles oil out onto the heating skillet.

“Yeah,” she says, pushing up so she can sit on the kitchen counter. Eliot has to hold himself back from telling her to _move_ her ass _off_ his prep surface, but there’s a ton of counter space and he’s not actually _using_ that spot and it _is_ her house, but _come on_ Kady, there’s a table and chairs and like five barstools, and then she keeps talking about Quentin and Eliot forgets all about whatever had him up in arms.

“He’s been in that dark place for so long… I didn’t think anything would drag him out.” Her dark eyes flicker up to Eliot’s. “I guess he just needed the right motivation.”

A warmth blossoms in his chest at Kady’s implication. “He’s lucky to have friends like you and Julia,” he says, thinking of the conversation he and Quentin had on their first real date. _I doubt I’d be sitting here with you right now, if not for her._

_So she’s your Margo._

“How are you doing?” Kady asks, eating another canape that Eliot hadn’t even noticed she’d had in her hand.

“I—” He starts to say his typical _I’m fine,_ but finds the words falter on his tongue. He meets Kady’s gaze, and the earnestness he sees there unlocks something in his chest. His face warms as he looks back to the skillet, knowing from how the oil is shimmering that it’s nearly ready for the chicken. “I’ve been better,” he confesses before he turns and grabs the meat, moving it closer to the stovetop.

“Sobriety’s a bitch, ain’t it?” she says, leaning her head against the upper cabinet. “I’d say it gets easier, and while it wouldn’t be a _total_ lie… it takes a long time to get there.”

Eliot nods as he stares at the pot of water that is not yet boiling, a lump forming in his throat. “I got drunk a few weeks ago,” he confesses, the words out before he even knows he’s going to say them. “On jello shots and two bottles of PBR.”

Kady’s eyes widen and she laughs, like _really_ laughs in a way Eliot’s never seen before. “Oh shit,” she says. “How’d the next day feel?”

“Like I fell asleep in an ashtray after spending a week with Mayakovsky,” he says, and then he’s laughing. “My vomit was rainbow colored.” He laughs the hardest he has in weeks, Kady nearly snorting next to him, and by the time they recover the water is boiling and the skillet is ready for the chicken.

“It’s been easier, since then,” he admits as he puts the potatoes in the boiling water. “To not drink. Not _easy_ ,” he clarifies. “Just easier.”

Kady nods and is opening her mouth to respond when she’s cut off by another voice from the living room—“Hey Eliot. Can you believe this bitch has never seen _The Craft_?”

Eliot turns to see Margo and Julia sitting down at the barstools along the island, apparently finished with the intense segment of their conversation. Judging from the smile on Margo’s face and how Julia is already rolling her eyes, they’re getting along better than Eliot could have hoped.

“Seriously?” Eliot says, raising an eyebrow towards Julia. “You’re a Brakebills graduate and you’ve never seen what happens when you get on Fairuza Balk’s bad side? Blasphemy.” He turns back to the stove, smiling.

“It’s a whole thing—” Julia starts, when Kady cuts her off.

“It’s a stupid fucking movie that makes home-grown hedges look bad.”

“Said the only _other_ Brakebills graduate in the room,” Eliot quips. “Now out of the kitchen. You’re a distraction, all three of you.”

Dinner goes off without a hitch—Kady’s eyes nearly roll out of her head at the first taste of the honey dijon chicken, and Julia jokes that she and Kady could use a personal chef. Eliot preens under the praise, catching Margo’s eye as she smiles softly at him.

Conversation is easy among the four of them; Margo and Eliot talking about their classes and how the Nature Kids somehow won this year’s Capture the Flag tournament (Josh lodged their flag in some kind of plant that was impenetrable to most types of magic. Professor Bax promptly took it into his lab for study as soon as the contest was over) and Kady telling them how her mother got her involved with the hedge community and how fast it’s growing.

Eliot’s actually enjoying himself, something he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do when he’d planned this dinner. He thought he’d see Quentin everywhere he looked, and while being here does bring back memories of that night where he learned of Quentin’s past, the last time Eliot would see him before that horrible night in the observatory tower, the memories don’t leave a bad taste in Eliot’s mouth.

It’s not until they're tearing into the tiramisu (assembling it here was the right call, even if it took some extra time), and Julia starts telling stories about Quentin as a student at Brakebills that his good mood sours. One minute he’s smiling as Julia tells them how Quentin was so excited once he figured out his actual discipline, he broke nearly all the dishes in the Cottage just so he could mend them, and the next he’s hit with a wave of longing so fierce he nearly topples over in his chair. Quentin should _be here_ with them, not alone in a treatment center where his only company is probably his books.

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and on the way there he passes by the guest bedroom. Memories of Quentin waking up in Eliot’s arms force themselves to the forefront of his mind, so vivid Eliot can almost feel Quentin’s tears soaking into his shirt. Eliot had felt so helpless that morning, struggling to think of how to make Quentin’s tears disappear. It turned out all he had to do was be there for him. And listen.

He washes his hands and looks at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes are clear, even if the dark circles underneath are now a permanent fixture. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and finds Julia waiting outside.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. He steps out of the bathroom, gesturing. “It’s all yours.”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Um. Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” he says. She walks out to the balcony, Eliot following. Margo is still sitting and talking with Kady; she arches an eyebrow at him as he passes through the front room. He gives her a short nod— _I’m okay_ —and she turns back to Kady.

This is his first time out on the balcony, and the view is nothing short of spectacular. The city is spread out in front of them, the night sky above them, and he wonders if Quentin is looking at the same stars right now.

He’s surprised when Julia pulls a pack of cigarettes from a side table, offering him one. He takes it without hesitation. They smoke in silence for a few moments; winter is slowly giving way to spring, but there’s still a chill in the air that has Eliot shivering slightly.

He’s about to break the silence when Julia says softly, “I’ve known Q since we were kids. We grew up together. Even before Brakebills, we went through a lot of shit together. His parents’ divorce, _my_ parents’ divorce, James, all of Mackenzie’s bullshit, all of _my_ bullshit…” She shakes her head, still staring at the bright lights of the city.

“I know that first night I met you, I probably didn’t seem like a very good friend. To Quentin. When I told you how bad he could get. And I was a total bitch to you.” She taps the ash away into an ashtray set on the balcony, turning to face Eliot.

“If you think that qualifies as total bitch, then you’ve obviously never seen Bambi in a bad mood,” Eliot says carefully, not sure where this is leading. “I know you were surprised. And upset. Lot of shit going on.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Seems like there’s always something. That’s no excuse, and I’m sorry for being so rude. But I did mean what I said that night.” She looks him square in the eye, and she reminds him so much of Margo in that moment it takes Eliot’s breath away. “The change I saw— _see_ in Quentin, how hard he’s working to figure his shit out, how much he cares about his future now… it’s because of you. And I know you two have a lot to work out, and I’m not saying this to pressure you or whatever, I just… thank you.” Her big brown eyes are shining at him, and he turns away, trying to push down the lump forming in his throat.

“For what?” he asks, staring down at the cars moving slowly on the street below. “Getting him fired? Leaving him homeless?”

“For bringing my friend back to me,” she says, gently touching his arm. Eliot looks at her hand, and then back to Julia’s face. “You didn’t get him fired. And he’ll _never_ be homeless. Even if the two of you never see each other again, he’s different. Like he’s given himself permission to have a future. Thank you for that.”

Eliot chuckles, putting his cigarette stub in the ashtray. “He changed me, too,” he says softly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I know I’ll never regret having met him.”

Julia smiles at him, tapping out her cigarette. They stand in comfortable silence for a moment, and Eliot’s mind wanders to the bag he’d set down by the door, with an old book inside. To the end of one of the letters Quentin had sent him.

_I think a lot about what you said that night, Eliot. That horrible night I pulled away from you. You said that you believed. That we could make this work. Together._

_I told you what I felt didn’t matter. It does. God, even writing that down is hard, but it does._

_I believe, too, Eliot. Not that we can **make** this work… but that we **do**_ _work. I hope you give me the chance to prove it._

_Love,_

_Quentin_

“Can I ask you for a favor?” he asks Julia.

“Sure,” she says. “I have one more thing to tell you first, though.” Her smile is a little pained, and Eliot frowns.

“Okay? You start with the soft stuff and now it’s time for a shovel talk?”

“No,” Julia laughs. “I mean, Margo and I basically already covered that, so you’ve had it via proxy. Um, Quentin asked me to bring him some pictures. Of you guys, for him to have in his room.”

“Oh,” Eliot says, smiling as a new warmth blossoms in his chest. “That—That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Julia says, shifting away, her eyes darting between the ashtray, the view, and inside to where Kady and Margo are visible through the balcony windows. “So he asked me to get some printed. From his phone. That I’ve had here while he’s gone.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, not really sure where this is— _Fuck_. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “You have his phone. You’ve _seen_ his phone. Recently.”

“Mmhmm,” Julia murmurs, the corners of her mouth pulling up as she gazes out at the city.

“Can I—get another cigarette?” It’s in his hand before he even finishes the sentence, a proffered flame flickering out of Julia’s palm. He lights it and takes a drag as he decides between sucking it up and owning the fact that yes, he’s been texting Quentin’s phone random tender bullshit for weeks now, or jumping off the balcony so he doesn’t have to face this conversation.

“So I’m not _usually_ that pathetic,” he starts, after he’s taken a good, hard look at how far down the ground is, the thought _Technically I could just float down_ running through his mind more than once. “It’s been a tough few months,” he finishes with a sigh.

“No judgment. I wasn’t even going to say anything,” Julia says, turning to him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But Q asked me to get a few emails off his phone, and every time I turned it on…”

“There were more messages,” Eliot says, nodding, a rueful smile on his lips. _Into the void, indeed._ “You read them all. That’s why you invited me here tonight.”

“ _No_ ,” she says immediately, in a way Eliot knows means _yes_. “I want to get to know you Eliot. And to let you know, you’re not alone here.”

Eliot exhales slowly, stamping out his half-gone cigarette into the ashtray. He really needs to quit. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Does he know how much longer he’ll be there?”

“I talked to his doctor last time I visited,” Julia says. “He’s doing really well, and it’s up to him when he leaves. He’ll probably always be in some kind of therapy, but from talking to him, I think he’ll be ready to come home in a few weeks.”

_Weeks_ , Eliot thinks. So soon. And yet not soon enough.

“So what was your favor?” she asks.

He explains what he needs, and she agrees, with the most radiant smile he’s seen so far that night. They go back inside, Eliot handing the book to her.

“Looks well-loved,” she says, trailing a finger down the cover. “I’ll get it to him Monday.”

“I’ve had it a long time,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Thank you for coming and cooking. It was all amazing. We’ll have to return the favor,” she says, just as Kady and Margo walk over to them. Eliot glances behind them to see the kitchen has been cleaned, and one bag sitting on the island, packed with his skillet and other kitchen tools. Must be time to go.

“Yeah, we’ll order pizza,” Kady says. “Unless you want a mac and cheese with hot dog skillet.”

“Oh, I love that!” Margo responds. Eliot turns to her, chuckling.

“Bambi. I know I said to play nice, but you don’t have to go overboard.”

She responds by flicking him on his nose, causing him to flinch backwards and blink down at her. “I _do_ love it; you’re just too snobby to appreciate the simple things in life. Not everything has to have cavatappi and chorizo sausage.”

Eliot frowns as Margo grabs her jacket from the back of the couch, shrugging into it. “Béchamel and gruyere are simple enough,” he grumbles as he grabs his own jacket, “if we’re talking mac and cheese.” He’s about to thank Kady when, for the second time that night, he nearly jumps out of his skin when Professor Adiyodi just fucking appears out of thin air, right in the middle of the front room.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Eliot says, jerking backwards. “You should wear a bell. Or like, call first.” He glances over at Julia to see her looking at Adiyodi with wide eyes, while Kady is smirking at him.

The professor, who Eliot is delighted to see is wearing a sleeveless maroon vest with no undershirt, a blue scarf, and loose black pants, rolls his eyes. Eliot watches with interest as Adiyodi takes a half-step towards Julia, and then stops, deciding instead to sit on the couch.

“Sorry,” he says shortly. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Really?” Margo says, smiling. “Well, we’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for your hospitality.” Turning to Julia, she says, “We’ll be in touch.” Julia nods, and after another round of good-byes, Eliot and Margo are in the hallway, Eliot loaded down with the skillet and other items he’d brought with him, this time condensed into one bag for travel.

“So they’re all fucking, right?” Margo asks as they step into the elevator.

“Oh, totally,” Eliot says, the door closing in front of them.

~~~

_Quentin_

“You said a lot in these letters.” Dr. King folds up the letter, placing it back in the envelope and handing it, along with an additional envelope, back to Quentin. He’d written the letters to his mom and dad and decided to bring them to his session today instead of tucking them into his nightstand. These, he could never send.

Quentin nods, setting the letters on the little table next to the couch he was curled up on. “I felt really… good after I finished the one to my mom,” he says. “And then I felt really guilty.”

“Why do you think you felt that way?” Dr. King asks.

“Well, I mean, you read it. It’s… mean. I told her I miss the relationship we didn’t have more than I miss her. I basically said she was a horrible mother.”

“Is that how you feel?”

Quentin pauses, shifting in his seat. “I mean… yeah?” he says, hating how it comes out like a question. “I could have made more of an effort, though.”

“You think ten-year-old you should have made more of an effort when she said you were ‘an idiot’ for bumping into a glass vase and shattering it? When you were fourteen and she told you that your crying all the time was making her depressed? Or when she said that grad school was a waste of time because you’d never do anything with your education anyway?”

“Point taken,” Quentin says, sighing.

They spend the rest of the session further dissecting Quentin’s guilt towards his relationship with his mom, and how that differed from the guilt he felt towards his dad. ( _You think your father might have decided to continue cancer treatment if you’d dropped out of Brakebills? You don’t trust that he was telling you the truth when he told you the treatment was making him sick, miserable, and he didn’t want to finish his life that way?_ ) It’s one of those sessions that leaves Quentin lighter and heavier all at the same time, and he’s ready to see Julia for her regular visit when Dr. King asks, just before he leaves, “Have you given any more thought to leaving the clinic?”

Quentin freezes, his breath catching in his chest. He wants to leave, he does, Julia has all but told him if he even thinks about going anywhere that is not her apartment she’ll track him down and drag him home by the hair. But here at the clinic, the biggest decision he has to make is if he wants to wear the grey hoodie or the black hoodie or if he wants to talk about how shitty he feels about Eliot or how shitty he feels about his parents. Outside of the clinic, he’ll have to find a job and live in Julia’s spare room and face the fact that Eliot probably wants nothing to do with him.

“Yeah,” he finally says, forcing himself to meet Dr. King’s eyes. “I know I’m at a place where it makes sense for me to check out. I feel a lot more—in control than I have in the past several years. I’m—” he pauses, glancing at the trees visible through the office window. “I’m terrified,” he says, looking down at his hands.

“Of what?” Dr. King asks.

“That I won’t be able to handle it. Actually _living_ a real life without drinking or getting high. That I won’t find another job. That I’ll live in Julia and Kady’s spare room forever and I’ll be that weird guy that like, spends all his days in his room writing fanfiction about some sci-fi show that people only care about because it really fucked over the lead and pissed off the audience and I relate to it _way_ too much. That I’ll… I’ll finally _really_ talk to Eliot, and he’ll tell me he never wants to see me again.”

Dr. King gives him that same kind smile he’s seen many times over the past two months. “Do you really think that’s what’s going to happen?”

“It might!” Quentin says. “We don’t know the future!” He’s given up on keeping his hands to himself and is going full-on hardcore Coldwater gesturing. “We don’t have a crystal ball. Unless you’re like, hiding one under your desk,” he finishes, stabbing the air in the general direction of Dr. King’s desk.

Dr. King laughs, one of only a handful of times Quentin has ever seen them laugh. They grab a folder off their desk, opening it and flipping through a few pages. “That summoning spell for your watch has gone off… everyday this week. Sometimes multiple times a day.” They toss the folder back on the desk as Quentin watches, tracking the file’s movement, his heart beating harder against his chest. He knew Eliot was casting the spell some evenings, but not every day.

“I don’t have a crystal ball, Quentin, and I certainly don’t know what Eliot’s thinking. But I don’t think anyone is that dedicated to someone they never plan on seeing again.”

Quentin lets out a startled laugh, not even minding the tears prickling at his eyes.

“We’re almost at the point where we’ve done all we can in here. I can continue to see you weekly, and refer you to a few groups in the city. It’s going to be scary no matter when you go. I think a few more weeks, and you’re ready. End of this month? Set that goal for now and see how you feel in a couple more weeks?”

Quentin nods, his gaze still focused on the folder on Dr. King’s desk. “Yeah. I think—yeah.” He turns and looks at the calendar on the wall. “Shit. Three weeks?”

“Three weeks,” Dr. King says.

Quentin leaves the office thinking _Three weeks feels like forever_ and _It’s going to go by so fast._ He’s moving on auto-pilot, heading back to his room when he hears his name being called behind him. He turns and sees Chris waving him towards the large room in the front of the building.

_Oh, shit. Julia._

She’s waiting for him on their usual couch, just her today, no Kady. She seems extra excited, and he realizes he is too. “We set a date,” he blurts out as soon as he’s plopped down next to her.

“A date?” she asks, a confused look flashing over her face.

“For me. Leaving here. End of this month. Three weeks.”

Julia stares at him for a moment, and then her face lights up, her smile so big and bright Quentin thinks it could power the building. “Q!” she squeals. “That’s so amazing!” She wraps her arms around him, hugs him tightly. “You feel like you’re ready?”

“Fuck no,” he says, laughing. “But I’ll get there.”

She squeezes him again, and then pulls back, the look on her face reminiscent of a kid on Christmas morning. “I have something else that might make your day even brighter.” She pulls up her bag, opening it and pulling out a hardcover book. The cover is a dark maroon, and Quentin can see gold embossing on the cover and spine. He doesn’t see the title until she turns it to face him as she places it in his hands.

“Romeo and Juliet,” Quentin reads, his heart in his throat. He looks up at Julia, and then back to the book—“Is this from—?” he asks, blinking quickly.

Julia nods, sliding closer to him as he opens the cover. “It’s from Eliot. He came over for dinner on Saturday, him and Margo. He asked me to give you this.”

He barely hears her as he flips through the pages, seeing highlights, notes in the margins in Eliot’s familiar handwriting, even a doodle or two. “Is this his copy from college?” Quentin wonders out loud, tracing a scribble on one page with his finger. God, it goes against everything inside of him to write inside the pages of a hardcover, but right now, he’s thankful Eliot has no such qualms.

“I don’t know,” Julia says. “He just said he’d had it a long time.”

Quentin flips a few other pages before Julia’s words catch up to him, and he shuts the book, turning to her—“You had _dinner_ with him?” he asks. “You guys have been _talking_?” He’s not sure to feel jealous or betrayed or thrilled that Eliot is open enough to hang out with Julia.

“No,” Julia laughs. “I just told Penny to tell him I’m around if he wanted to talk, and he texted so I invited him and Margo to the apartment for dinner.”

“You _cooked him dinner_? And he’s alive to tell the tale?” Even as he ribs Julia, the pads of his fingers move over the book, feeling the indentions in the cover from the embossing. It’s not a letter, but it’s a message, one that Quentin wasn’t sure would ever come. He can’t keep the grin from spreading on his face as Julia rolls her eyes.

“No. _He_ made _us_ dinner.” She smiles sweetly at him, glancing down at the book he’s holding possessively in his hands. “He’s great, Q. I can see why you fell so hard for him. Margo’s cool too, even if a little… intense.”

Quentin snorts. “That’s one way to describe her.” He looks down at the book again, itching to read it, not just the notes Eliot’s scribbled in the margins, but the entire play—it’s been years since he’s read any Shakespeare, and now the playwright is forever linked with Eliot in Quentin’s mind.

Forcing himself to focus on his friend, Quentin says, “How’s Penny doing? He’s been okay since he and Pearl broke up? He seems fine when he visits, but you know how he is.”

Julia’s mouth quirks up and she glances off to the side, and Quentin gets that odd feeling in his stomach like there’s something she’s not telling him. Then she shrugs, smiling. “He hangs out with me and Kady sometimes. He seems okay.”

They talk more about Quentin’s impending discharge from the clinic, and while Quentin knows he should be freaking out more about going out into the real world with no real prospects or any idea what he’s going to do with his life, right now he can’t stop smiling.

He turns the book over in his hands as he talks to Julia, glancing down at it every few minutes, like he can’t believe it’s real.

Three weeks can’t pass fast enough.

~~~

_Two weeks later_

Quentin sits at the small desk in his room, a blank piece of paper in front of him and a pen in his hand. He never did bother looking for a pencil, as by now he’s used to just committing to whatever spills out of him onto the page.

This is the letter he’s been putting off. He knows he has to do this before he can be truly ready to leave and resume his life—or start his life, really. Tears are already prickling at the back of his eyelids as he leans over and starts writing.

_Dear Alice,_

_I should’ve done this a long time ago. I can’t believe it’s been over five years. You’ve been gone longer than I knew you._

_It’s not fair. And I know what you’d say, “Life isn’t fair, Quentin, get used to it.” Then you’d make me ice cream and roll your eyes when I said how disgusting it was to top yours with gummi bears._

_There was so much life ahead of us. We were happy, Alice, at least for a little while. When we were on that rooftop at Brakebills, fireworks exploding up above, I wasn’t looking at the sky. I was looking at you and wondering how I got so fucking lucky._

_I still think about you every day. I still love you; that’ll never change. After you died, I kind of lost myself. I got up every day, went to class, kept on breathing in and breathing out, but I stopped living._

_That all changed when I met Eliot. I think you would’ve liked him, Alice. Well, eventually. Once you saw how brilliant he is. How much he cares. He couldn’t be more different from you, but when he looks at me, I feel like I’m the only person on Earth. I’d only ever felt that way before with you._

_I’m so sorry, Alice. I know now what happened to you wasn’t my fault, but there will never be a day that I don’t think about you and wish things had been different. I don’t think I’ll ever make peace with what happened, but I’ll learn to live with it._

_I hope wherever you are, you’re able to rest. And that there are unicorns._

_Love,_

_Quentin_

_~~~_

“Welcome home.” Julia hugs him _again_ as they stand in the front room of the penthouse, sunlight streaming in through the balcony windows.

“Thanks, Jules.” Quentin pulls away, smiling and taking off his jacket. Everything looks just the same as it did when he left, which shouldn’t be a surprise. He was only gone a little over three months, not three years. Kady shuts the door behind him, and he’s surprised, but happy to see Penny standing up from the couch. He can’t stop himself from glancing around the apartment to see if anyone else is here, and swallowing his disappointment at seeing only Penny.

“Hey!” Quentin walks over to Penny, ignoring the offered handshake and pulling him into a quick hug. “You didn’t have to come over to say hi, we could’ve met up some other time.”

Penny clears his throat, pulling away and glancing over to Julia, who’s smiling as she takes off her coat. “I didn’t come for you, dork.”

“ _Dork_ ,” Quentin repeats, smiling. “You gonna go soft on me now that I’m officially a recovering addict?”

Penny snorts, his eyes on Julia and Kady as they move into the kitchen. Julia is rifling through menus; Quentin can see one for his favorite Italian restaurant. She catches his eye and gives him a smile as Kady pulls out her phone.

“So how are you? Things going okay at Brakebills?” Quentin asks. He hasn’t seen Penny in over a month, not since he collected the letters for Eliot. Quentin had thought, when Penny never came back with a letter or something for him, that he didn’t want to show up empty-handed. Then Margo had visited, and Quentin realized Penny probably didn’t want to listen to Quentin blubber all over him again. Or be asked for his delivery services.

“Yeah,” Penny says, relaxing, one arm against the back of the couch. He’s still gazing at the kitchen as he replies, “No major disasters in at least a month, so calling it a win.”

Quentin turns in his seat, glancing back at the kitchen, trying to see what has Penny so captivated. He sees only Kady and Julia, and as he’s watching, Kady catches Penny’s eye and throws him a wink. He slowly turns back to Penny, who gives her a goofy grin and winks back. Then he catches Quentin watching him and clears his throat, looking away.

An uneasy conclusion blooms in Quentin’s gut, in a cold, gross way, like when you figure out your roommate has been scrubbing the toilet with your toothbrush. How often Julia mentions talking to Penny. How she and Kady change the subject when Quentin actually asks questions about him. Penny’s newly single status. “Penny,” he says. “Please don’t sleep with my best friends.”

Penny’s head jerks in Quentin’s direction, and his gaze jumps from Quentin, behind him to Kady and Julia, and then back again. Then he breaks into a small smile, and Quentin’s jaw drops as he sees a slight blush fall over Penny’s cheeks.

“Too late, man,” Penny says, laughing.

A few hours later, after Penny has received no less than three shovel talks from Quentin and they’re all stuffed full of pasta and bread, Quentin is laying on his bed in the guest room—or, rather, his bedroom. May as well own it. The copy of _Romeo & Juliet_ that Eliot had sent him is laying on the bedspread next to him. He picks it up, thumbing through it.

He’s had it for three weeks and he’s read it so many times he has Eliot’s notes memorized. The little doodle of a rose next to the popular passage from Act 2. The smudges on the edge of the page with the balcony scene.

He’d been more than half-hoping he’d walk out of the clinic and Eliot would be there. Or he’d come to Julia’s for dinner. He didn’t even know if Eliot knew he was back out into the wild. Even with the book and the watch that still lit up randomly, Quentin is still more than half-terrified to ask Julia or Penny if they’d told Eliot about it. That they’ll say, _Yeah, we told him. He said he didn’t want to see you._

Which would be totally valid. _Eliot deserves all the time he needs, even if it’s forever_ , Quentin thinks. His next thought is, _I need a drink._

He exhales slowly, head tilted back against the headboard as he closes his eyes. He can’t control what Eliot does or doesn’t want. He can control how he reacts to it. Which will not be drinking or getting high.

“Q?”

He opens his eyes and focuses on Julia standing in the doorway, something in her hand. “Hey,” he says, sitting up straighter.

“How you doing?” she asks, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He can see that she’s holding his phone, along with his charger.

“Okay,” he says. “Just… taking it all in.” He smiles sadly at her. “Wondering what’s next.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she says. “It’s okay to give yourself a few days. Adjust to your new normal.” He nods as she slides his phone over to him. “Here’s your phone. Figured you might want it.”

“Thanks,” he says, picking it up and putting it on his nightstand. Turning back to Julia, he starts, “So how long—”

“Aren’t you going to turn it on?” Julia interrupts, frowning.

Quentin shrugs. “Later, I guess. Not really anything I need on it. I mean anyone that will call me is like, _in_ this apartment, including you and your wife’s _new boyfriend_ , so…”

Julia rolls her eyes. “ _Everyone_ , Q?” she asks, ignoring his pointed barb. She has that look on her face, like he’s the biggest idiot in the world, and he has no idea why.

“Yes…?” he says, glancing at his phone. “What are you—”

“Just turn on your damn phone and read the texts.” Then she leaves the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Quentin grabs his phone, powering it on while he fumbles with plugging in the charger into the wall. He’s surprised to see it’s already fully charged as it blinks to life.

His notifications bar is flooded quickly—emails, calendar reminders… and text messages. He navigates to his text threads, seeing a few from other faculty members at school, some from Molly… and a few from Eliot. His heart starts beating heavily against his chest, and he selects Eliot’s text thread.

There are a few new messages, but he scrolls back, and back and back, realizing there are truly _dozens_ , they’ve just been marked as read. His hands start to shake slightly as he catches a few phrases.

_Missing you today._

_So fucking pissed at you._

_It made me think of you._

He sets the phone down on the bed as it starts to blur in front of him. “Fuck,” he whispers, trying to calm himself down. Eliot’s been fucking _texting_ him for the past three months. And now it’s here, at his fingertips. He wipes his eyes, exhaling a deep breath, and picks up his phone, scrolling back to the last message he sent.

And he starts to read.

_Quentin [1/12 9:13am]_

_I know you don’t want to hear from me. I hope you’re okay. Penny told me you are, it’s just hard. Not talking to you. Seeing you. And I know that’s no one’s fault but mine. I’m sorry, again, I just want to tell you I’m going into a treatment center. Rehab, I guess. For magicians. Some place outside the city that Kady knows. I’m not sure how long I’ll be there. I know that you’re right. We need to… I need to figure my shit out. On my own. But I need you to know. I love you. I always will. I hope we can be in each other’s lives again. I understand if that’s not possible. But I will always want that._

_Quentin [1/12 9:16am]_

_I love you. I’ll try not to contact you again._

_Quentin [1/12 9:35am]_

_My bounty is as boundless as the sea,_

_My love as deep; the more I give to thee,_

_The more I have, for both are infinite._

_Quentin [1/12 9:36am]_

_That was the last one, I swear._

_Eliot [1/26 6:32pm]_

_There is no world where I will not want you._

“Fuck,” Quentin whispers, looking at the date. Just a couple of weeks after he checked into the clinic. His heart soars in his chest and he tamps it down, trying to remind himself that was three months ago. And there are a lot more messages to go.

_Eliot [2/09 4:52pm]_

_Dropped a beaker in my afternoon lab. I fixed it. Because you taught me how._

_Eliot [2/11 4:09pm]_

_Missing you today. I miss you every day, but today… Valentine’s Day is this weekend. I wish I could spend it with you._

_Eliot [2/14 7:04pm]_

_Happy Valentine’s Day, Q._

_Eliot [2/15 1:37am]_

_Why did you kiss me on the street that night? Why did you invite me back to your office? Why did I say yes?_

_Eliot [2/15 2:04am]_

_So fucking pissed at you. We had it, you know? Now we have nothing._

_Eliot [2/15 5:38pm]_

_Sorry. Rough night._

Quentin runs a hand through his hair, getting off the bed and starting to pace. He can practically feel Julia on the other side of the door, tense and ready to burst in if she thinks he needs her. Seeing Eliot’s anger, his hurt _right there_ , sent directly to Quentin rips a new hole in his heart.

Quentin forces himself to keep reading—there are several more texts with random notes about therapy, classes, and books—apparently Eliot started reading T _he World in the Walls_ , and he thinks Rupert is a _whiny little bitch_. He’s chuckling when he gets to a string of texts that turn his blood to ice.

_Eliot [3/13 11:42pm]_

_i miss u_

_srry im little drunk. k a lot. rough week. rough forever._

_Eliot [3/13 11:57pm]_

_im gonna be so bad at me tmrw when i look back at these messages. call that future eliot problem. i miss u so much. still love u. margo says i need to move on but_

_Eliot [3/14 12:05am]_

_just wish i could talk to you. hear your voice. i don’t mean phone sex. i mean that would be fine. too._

_uh oh. Bambi coming. Not in the good wya. Gotta go._

_Eliot [3/14 12:07am]_

_< 2 (random string of emojis)_

Margo had told Quentin Eliot was in therapy. Quentin has no idea what kind of therapy, but these texts make his gut twist. It was a couple of days later Penny had given Quentin Eliot’s message— _Hi_. When Quentin had sent Penny back with his letters. And two weeks later Margo had visited Quentin.

_Eliot [3/25 11:47pm]_

_I read your letters. Thank you for sending them. It makes it easier. To do the hard things. Knowing you’re doing them too._

_Eliot [3/25 11:49pm]_

_I let Margo read them. And I read hers, the one you sent through BB post. Don’t you dare tell her I told you, but she teared up. You have a way with words, Q. I miss listening to you talk._

_Eliot [3/25 11:52pm]_

_I know I’m going to regret sending all of these when you get your phone back. Should've thought of that 100 texts ago. And it feels good to tell you. Or the void. That I miss you._

_Eliot [3/25 11:55pm]_

_I’ve thought about going to visit you. But I’m not ready to see you now. I’m sorry._

_Eliot [4/1 7:45pm]_

_Margo told me she visited you. I thought it was a fucking April Fools joke. She wouldn’t tell me what you talked about. She said you looked good. I’m not jealous that she got to see you. Not at all._

_Eliot [4/3 11:38pm]_

_Margo and I had dinner with Julia and Kady tonight. It was more fun than I thought it would be. It was nice to cook for people again. I hereby declare my mission to win them over through their stomachs a success._

_I miss you._

_Also hi Julia._

_Eliot [4/3 11:45pm]_

_BTW I dunno if you know this but Professor Adiyodi is totally doing your best friends._

Quentin rolls his eyes. Of course he’s the last to know.

There’s only a few more texts after that, and as he reads the last one, Quentin sits down heavily on the bed.

_Eliot [4/27 3:17pm]_

_Julia told me that you’re coming home tomorrow. I guess that means you’re going to get my 800 texts. Sorry not sorry? I know it’s a lot._

_Eliot [4/27 3:19pm]_

_I’m so happy you’re home. I don’t know if I’m ready to see you. It’s been rough. I haven’t had a drink in six weeks. Classes have been really tough. You can t_ _ext me, if you want. I just can’t promise you anything._

Quentin goes back to the top of the thread, and reads them all over again. He flops back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He feels wrung out, exhausted, exhilarated, all at once. He touches a finger to his cheek, not surprised to find them wet with tears. Day one out of the clinic and he’s already crying. Which is fine, crying is a part of healing, and he has to accept that part of himself. At least that’s what Dr. King has told him dozens of times.

He rereads Eliot’s last text. _I just can’t promise you anything._ It’s more than he could have hoped for. He sits up, leaning over his phone as he types a response, punching it out before he can overthinking it to death.

_Quentin [7:03pm]_

_I got my phone back. I’m at Julia’s. Or home, I guess. For now._

_Thank you for all your texts. It means a lot. To be able to read them._

_Quentin [7:04pm]_

_I’m ready whenever you are. Any time, day or night. Even if that’s never, that’s fine. Just say the word._

_Or don’t. Well. You know what I mean._

He’s just hit send on the last text when the dots at the bottom of the screen appear. He stands up, one hand pushing through his hair as he stares at his phone.

_Eliot [7:05pm]_

_How about now?_

~~~

tbc in Chapter 16: Section 10 - Guide to Dating After Addiction - Was He This Attractive the Entire Time??


	16. Section 10 - Guide to Dating After Addiction - Was He This Attractive the Entire Time??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to hoko and mixtapestar for betaing this so quickly!
> 
> One more chapter to go. It should be up sooner rather than later.

_Quentin_

They meet at the cafe, across the street from Brian’s Books, for coffee. At 8:30 at night. On a Wednesday.

As soon as they decided where to meet and Quentin got Eliot’s last text of _See you soon_ , he promptly flipped out. He was going to see _Eliot_ , whom he hadn’t seen in over three months. The last time they saw each other, Eliot was prone in a hospital bed and Quentin had tears streaming down his face. In a little over an hour he’s going to see the love of his life and hopefully convince him to take him back.

He’s fucked.

“Julia!” he says, throwing open the closet door. “I need help.”

She’s there immediately, her eyes wide, a tentative smile on her face. “What’s wrong? You saw the texts, right?”

“Yes, I _saw them, Julia_ ,” he says, stressing his words for no reason, one hand already shoved into his hair. “I wrote back to Eliot. We’re going to meet.”

“Thank God,” Penny says from behind Julia, on the couch, with Kady’s legs swung over his thighs. “I thought you’d do that shit where you fucking mope for weeks over calling him and then meltdown over a text or something.”

“I’m seeing him in an _hour_ ,” Quentin says, glaring at Penny. God, Quentin gets fired and Penny breaks up with the hottest teacher on campus and fucking _sweeps in_ and _seduces_ two of the most important people in Quentin’s life while he was in rehab _worrying_ over the _position_ he’d put Penny in. Oh, he’d put Penny in a _position_ alright. One that ended with him sandwiched naked between his two best friends and this is _not_ what he should be thinking about right now. Later, that is for _later_.

Penny thumps his head back against the couch, groaning. “So we’re still getting the meltdown, just over a different thing. Great.”

After a flurry of pants and shirts and hoodies—god, so many fucking hoodies—Quentin, with Julia’s help, settles on his favorite outfit from his online shopping trip with Eliot so many months ago—his dark gray jacket and matching slacks, with the black and white polka dotted shirt. He gathers his hair into a low bun, which Juila artfully messes up, pulling out a few select tendrils as Quentin tries to stay still and keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“I’m gonna be late,” he says as she studies him, lips pursed, Kady standing just off to the side with a smirk on her face. 

“There,” Julia says. “Just don’t touch it and you’ll be fine.” Quentin ignores Penny’s snort from where he’s laid out on the couch.

“Okay,” Quentin says, checking that he has his wallet, his phone, and the pocket watch, secure in his pants pocket. Glasses—does he have his glasses? Yes, he can see, so check, glasses. “Wish me luck.”

“Hey,” Julia says, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “You don’t need it. Tell him how you feel. Just be you.”

“But not too much,” Penny calls from the couch.

“Fuck off,” Quentin says, giving Julia a quick hug and turning towards the door.

“Q,” Kady says, following him to the threshold. He turns, surprised as she pulls him into a hug. “Check in with me, okay?” she says into his ear as she squeezes him tight. “I’ll text you; make sure you reply.”

“Okay,” he says quietly, suddenly afraid he’s going to start bawling into her shoulder. “Even if it goes badly, I won’t—I’ll call you.” He pulls away, looking into her eyes, trying to look strong, reassuring, but suspecting he only looks terrified.

“I know. We’ll be here no matter what.” She gives him one final hug, leading to another groan from Penny behind her.

“God, it’s _coffee_ not the fucking _prom_. He promised to be back by curfew, give him a condom and let him go!”

“Shut up!” This time it’s Julia chastising Penny as she hurls a throw pillow at his head. Quentin slips out, Penny’s protests following him into the hallway.

Every single pedestrian walking the streets of New York City tonight exist only to slow Quentin down, and he has to force himself to walk, not run, most of the way. He’s nearly to the cafe when he ducks into the doorway of a closed shop and takes a few deep breaths. His heart is beating so hard he’s sure every person walking by is looking around, wondering why the ground is shaking.

He grabs his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text to Kady— _About to head into the cafe_ —and puts it back without waiting for a response. One more deep inhale and he steps back onto the sidewalk. He’s taken about ten steps when he sees him.

He’s standing just outside the cafe, texting on his phone. Even from a distance, he’s breathtaking. His hair is longer than the last time Quentin saw him, pushed away from his face, curls tickling the collar of his jacket. No vest or tie tonight, just a dark button-down, the top few buttons undone under a black suit jacket, unbuttoned. The streetlights are bright enough that Quentin can see the stubble on his face. More than a shadow, but not close to a beard; it suits him.

 _He’s beautiful,_ Quentin thinks. One of the reasons he’d asked Julia to bring him the pictures of Eliot was to remind himself that he didn’t make it all up. That someone as loving, fierce, loyal, and dazzling as Eliot not only _noticed_ him, but fucking fell in love with him. Sometimes at night in the clinic, he’d lay awake and think he was looking at it all through Eliot-colored glasses. There was no way he’d looked at Quentin that tenderly, grazed the pads of his fingers against Quentin’s cheek so lovingly, or held Quentin so tightly when he woke up and sobbed in Eliot’s arms.

But now, as he stares at Eliot under the streetlights of the city, as pedestrians grumble at him because he's standing stock-still on the sidewalk, he knows every single moment they had together was real. That first kiss on the side of a busy walkway just like this one, under the same stars shining in the sky right now. Emotion swells up in his chest, surging through his veins and he knows he needs to keep walking but he just can’t make his feet move.

Eliot’s frowning at his phone as Quentin is having his mini-breakdown, and then he slides his phone in his pocket, straightening his jacket. He looks up and locks eyes with Quentin, and from how his mouth goes slack and his eyes widen, Quentin knows he’s feeling the same rush in his body.

Then Eliot’s mouth pulls up into a smile as he raises an arm towards Quentin, and Quentin’s feet have remembered how to move and then he’s in front of Eliot, stopping just a foot in front of him.

“Hey,” Quentin says, taking in every inch of his face. His hazel eyes have dark circles under them, but they’re clear and shining right on Quentin.

“Q,” Eliot says, reaching a hand out, falling just short of Quentin’s arm before he reels it in, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch Quentin. “It’s—good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, unable to stop staring at Eliot, the creases in his cheeks when he smiles, the curl that Quentin is itching to tuck back behind his ear. “Can I hug you?” The words tumble out before he even knows he’s going to ask them, and he manages to stop from instantly berating himself as he waits for Eliot’s response.

Eliot smiles, big and broad, and says, “Yeah. You can hug me.”

It’s tentative for a second, until Eliot pulls Quentin bodily against him, one arm around his neck and the other his waist. Quentin wraps both arms around Eliot’s neck and closes his eyes against the tears springing forward as the unique scent he can only think of as _Eliot_ surrounds him.

He inhales softly as Eliot squeezes him hard, pressing his cheek against Quentin’s. Quentin resists the urge to drop a kiss against Eliot’s neck as he pulls away all too soon, shoving his hands in his pockets and clearing his throat, hoping he doesn’t look like he feels, which is about to break out bawling on the sidewalk.

“You look good,” Eliot says, swallowing as his eyes flicker over Quentin, from head to toe and then back again. 

Quentin’s cheeks warm as he gazes up into Eliot’s hazel eyes and says, “Yeah,” in this soft, wistful voice like he’s fifteen-years-old again, staring at Julia all dressed up for the first time in that ruffled chiffon blue dress for the Homecoming Dance. Then he gets a hold of himself, looking down and quickly correcting, “I mean _you_. Look good. _Amazing_. Like you always do.”

He looks back up to Eliot to see him smiling down at him fondly, and Quentin can’t help but smile back. 

“Shall we?” Eliot asks, gesturing to the cafe. The outdoor seating area is nearly empty, and they sit down at a small table on the outer edge. A waitress quickly comes over and they both order a coffee. She walks away and Quentin is left staring at Eliot, trying to not let every thought spinning around his head come flying out of his mouth.

_Pictures do no justice to how beautiful you are._

_I’m so sorry._

_I love you._

_Wanna make out under the table?_

“I got your texts,” is what bursts out, just as Eliot is opening his mouth to speak. He snaps it shut, almost grimacing as Quentin adds, “Obviously. Since I texted you back.”

“Yeah,” Eliot sighs, looking away. “I’m sorry, I’m sure that was a lot for your first night back—”

“No,” Quentin says quickly. “It was great. Amazing. Eliot, I—”

He’s cut off by the waitress appearing with two cups and a coffee pot, which she sets on the table after she’s filled their mugs. She moves away, and Eliot speaks before Quentin can.

“I got your letters.” He wraps his hands around the coffee mug, but makes no move to take a sip. “Thank you. For writing them, sending them.” He looks down at his coffee mug and then back to Quentin. “I missed you, Q. A lot.”

“Me too,” Quentin says, squashing the urge to reach across the table, knowing that Eliot was probably holding onto his mug for dear life for a reason. “Eliot, I meant every word I wrote. When I turned on my phone and saw your texts…” He shakes his head, unable to stop the smile from spreading on his face. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”

He meets Eliot’s gaze, and it’s like no time or trauma has passed at all. That same string is still pulled taut between them, snapping with tension, ready to reel Eliot in with a flick of Quentin’s wrist. “I do,” Eliot says softly. “Want to see you.” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “I thought about visiting you. Every day. But I—I kept thinking about that night. In the tower.” His lower lip trembles, and he exhales a harsh breath. 

_Okay, jumping right into it._ Quentin’s pulse starts to race, and his gaze drops to the table. This is what he’s been waiting for, dreading, for months. “I—”

“Please,” Eliot interrupts. “I need to tell you.” Quentin nods and looks down at the table top, waiting.“I meant what I said that night. That I love you.” Quentin’s gaze pulls back up to Eliot, not hiding the tears that spring to his eyes as the words hit him, wrapping around him like a soft blanket, warm and secure. “By then, I had for a while. I didn’t say it because I thought you’d pull away. And when you _did_ , it—broke me.” Eliot’s voice is rough. “I’d been hurt before, but that just. Killed me in a whole new way.” He looks over at the street, at the people passing by. Quentin stays silent, his heart sinking lower in his chest with every passing moment. 

“I get it,” Eliot continues. “Why you did what you did, broke things off, said—said it didn’t matter.”

“It _does_ matter.” Quentin can’t keep quiet at the soft lilt to Eliot’s voice, at the broken look in his eyes. “It does. I was an idiot.”

“I know,” Eliot says, then he chuckles. “We were both idiots, really. That’s been the main topic of all my therapy sessions these past few months. That, and… other things,” he sighs. “I see Vikki a couple times a week and I go to a sobriety group.”

Quentin nods, his heart still stuck on _killed me in a whole new way_. Quentin did that. He hurt Eliot so much he’d fucking— _fuck_. Quentin wants to say something, anything to make it better, but what the fuck can he say to make up for that? Instead he chokes out, “Is it helping?” as he tries to swallow the regret coating his throat.

Eliot chuckles. “It sucks and I hate it. But I’m 46 days sober, which is… probably the longest I’ve gone without a drink or getting high since I was twelve.” He glances down at his cup of coffee and back to Quentin. “And all I can think about right now, along with how much I fucking missed you and how much I want to kiss you, is that I really wish this coffee was Irish.”

Quentin blinks, his mouth dry. “Y—Yeah,” he says finally, his own untouched cup forgotten on the table. “Forty-six days—that’s incredible. And that’s—those are hard things. To think about. I’m thinking about them too. All of them. Like, all three of them.”

Eliot smiles, chuckling, and he finally reaches over and picks up Quentin’s hand, slotting their fingers together. It’s warm and solid, the touch sending a tremor throughout Quentin’s entire body.

“I want to be with you, Q. I think about you all the time. I did that damn summoning spell on the watch so many times, wishing it would bring you back to me.” Quentin squeezes their palms together, a lump forming in his throat.

“I wish it could have,” Quentin says. He reaches in his pocket with his free hand, pulling the watch out, setting it on the table between them. “The first time I saw it, just a couple weeks after I checked in, it had been a really bad day. Bad couple of weeks, really. And I, uh. Didn’t feel like I could do it, you know? I just wanted to forget. And I was so close to just fucking walking out. And then this lit up, and I knew—you were out there. Thinking about me. And it helped so much, El. You have no idea.” A few tears are tracking down Quentin’s face, and he wipes them away with his free hand, bumping his glasses with his fingers. 

“I’m so sorry,” Quentin says. “Not only for that night, but just—El, you deserve so much better than what I gave you.” Eliot frowns, and Quentin rushes on before he can respond. “I pushed you away a lot more than just that night in the tower. And I know it’s not all my fault, but I need you to know. That I’d do anything to take back how I treated you. You nearly _died_. God, I’d go back and quit the second you walked in my class, if I could.” He wipes his face again, this time with the sleeve of his jacket. “Fuck, I’ve cried so much these past few months. Dr. King says I have to just accept it, but it fucking sucks.”

Eliot nods, placing his other hand over Quentin’s so his palm is wrapped up in Eliot’s hands. “Vikki tells me the same thing. Maybe they went to the same school or something.”

Quentin smiles, relishing the subtle heat spreading on his skin everywhere Eliot’s fingers touch. “You were right. I needed to deal with my shit. On my own. I wish it hadn’t taken us getting caught and you nearly dying for me to realize it.”

“Q,” Eliot says, his voice serious. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Quentin says, and he almost thinks he means it. “I—spent a lot of time. Talking about what I can and can’t control. How I’m responsible for my own actions. And you for yours.” Alice’s face flashes in his mind, and a familiar stab of pain hits his chest.

Eliot nods, his hands still wrapped around Quentin’s. “How was it? In rehab?” Eliot leans forward slightly, and Quentin thinks his glance drops down to Quentin’s lips, just for a second. “Kady just said you were somewhere for Magicians.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “It was the Shatner Recovery Center.” He smirks at Eliot, who scrunches up his nose.

“The Star Trek Travelocity guy? Is running a mental health clinic? That doesn’t seem wise.”

Quentin laughs, “I think he just funds it, but he _is_ a Magician. Which I can’t believe they don’t, like, put that info on the door when you walk into Brakebills. Anyway, it was a lot better than any treatment I’ve had before.” He tells Eliot about his days at the clinic—his sessions with Dr. King, group therapy, disasters in art, yoga, all of it.

“You mentioned yoga in your letters,” Eliot says. “I can definitely see the difference.” His gaze shifts down to Quentin’s chest, and Quentin's face grows warm under his appreciative scrutiny.

“I liked it,” he says. “I’ll probably find a class around here.” Eliot hums, and then he looks down at his pocket in surprise. Quentin can hear the familiar buzz of his phone vibrating.

“Shit,” he says. “I forgot to text Margo.” He pulls his hand away from Quentin’s, and Quentin tries to smother his disappointment as Eliot pulls out his phone. “Sorry—she said—demanded—that I text her every fifteen minutes.”

Quentin grabs his own phone and sends a quick text to Kady— _So far so good_ —and frowns at Eliot. “Every fifteen minutes? Kady asked me to check in, but this is my first day like, out of rehab and I think she and Julia are worried about me being out without a chaperone.”

“I guess I don’t count,” Eliot says dryly, smiling as he puts away his phone. “Margo just wanted to make sure we didn’t get… distracted.”

Quentin smirks. “We’re under sex watch?”

Eliot looks at Quentin for a second, and then half-smiles, ducking his head. “I... may have asked her to. Demand that I check in.”

Quentin can’t help himself from leaning forward slightly, his heart flipping as a familiar warm heat coils in his belly. “You were worried?”

“It’s a valid concern,” Eliot says, reaching forward to trail a finger down the back of Quentin’s hand that is resting on the tabletop. Quentin flips his hand palm up, and Eliot easily slides his hand down Quentin’s, wrapping his long fingers around Quentin’s wrist. Quentin has to fight to keep his eyes from fluttering shut at the familiar touch, and he knows Eliot can feel his pulse racing as he rubs his thumb over the sensitive skin of Quentin’s wrist. Eliot leans forward more across the small table so they’re only separated by a foot or so.

“I—” Eliot starts, his gaze darting between Quentin’s face and their joined hands, “I knew seeing you, being near you. After so long. Would be overwhelming. And I—” His fingers touch as he circles Quentin’s wrist, and he squeezes once, gently as he sways closer. Then he suddenly lets go of Quentin’s wrist, leaning back in his chair as his face falls. “ _Shit_ ,” he whispers to himself. Then he looks at Quentin—“I can’t do this.”

Quentin’s heart drops to the floor, and he looks down to the table, to where his hand sits alone. He jerks it back, clasping his hands in his lap. “You—You can’t?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly. _Of course he can’t. You were stupid to think he’d ever take you back_ , he thinks. Immediately followed by Dr. King’s soothing voice in his head, _Deep breaths, in and out._

“No—” Eliot exhales, clearing his throat. Then he straightens in his seat. “Okay, you read all my texts?” At Quentin’s nod, he says, “So you saw the ones in March. Where I drunk texted you.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, remembering how his gut had clenched when he’d seen them. Not unlike how it feels right now.

“That was a bad night for me,” Eliot says, his fingers twitching against the tabletop. “Well, one of many, but at first, that night didn’t _feel_ bad. I thought it was going great until I was being pulled out of the Castle by my hair by a very angry, sober Bambi, which is the worst combination of Bambi’s to have mad at you. She said maybe Brakebills wasn’t the best place for me. To get better. And that was... a wake up call. I got serious about no drinking or drugs, therapy, school, the whole nine yards. And things have been a lot better, especially after I got your letters. But when I think about us, together, in real life, trying again, and what could happen if it all goes to shit, what—I did last time—” Eliot cuts himself off, his jaw tense as he looks away from Quentin. “I don’t know what I’ll do if it all falls apart again.”

“Eliot,” Quentin says, blinking quickly against the fresh tears forcing their way out, “I—”

“I love you,” Eliot says, and Quentin snaps his mouth shut. “That will never change. If we start this again, and I’m not ready, or I fuck it up, or you fuck it up…” Eliot’s eyes are wide, wild as he looks at Quentin, almost like he’s trying to make himself believe his words as much as Quentin. “I can’t go down that road again. I’m not saying no. I’m just saying… not right now.”

Quentin nods, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest as he presses his lips together. “I get it, El,” he says softly. “I knew… this was a long shot.” A tear escapes from one eye, and he quickly brushes it away. He catches Eliot’s eye, his heart breaking at the pain he sees reflected in them.

“That last letter I wrote you,” Quentin says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I told you I meant every word. And I do. I love you,” he says, reaching out to grab Eliot’s hand, squeeze his fingers between his own, “That’s how I feel, and it _matters,_ and it will never change. But the one thing I want the most is for you to be happy. You have so much ahead of you. I’d love to be by your side through it all.” Eliot swallows as he stares at Quentin, his own eyes shining. “Like I texted you earlier tonight. I’m ready whenever you are. If it’s tomorrow, or in a month. And if it’s never, that’s okay.” Quentin is almost proud that his voice doesn’t break as he says it, even if his tears betray him. 

Eliot nods, looking at the pocket watch on the table as Quentin slowly pulls his hand away. He feels dizzy, ready to burst, and he needs to get out of here. “Um,” Quentin says, standing abruptly. “I should go.”

Eliot stands with him, picking up the pocket watch. “Q,” he says, grabbing his arm. “I—I don’t—”

“It’s okay, Eliot, really,” Quentin says. He pulls Eliot into a short, tight hug before pulling away. “I’ll text you.” He starts to step away but is stopped by Eliot’s hand, tight on his arm. He looks up at Eliot, one hand slipping around the phone in his pocket. He needs to text Kady before he does something stupid. The urge to get a drink slams into him, so strong he can already taste the liquor on his tongue.

Eliot shoves the pocket watch into his free hand. “Keep this, okay?”

Quentin stares down at it for a moment before shoving it in his pocket. “Okay,” he says quietly, not sure what else to say. Then he slips away, and Eliot lets him go.

He makes it a half block away before he ducks into an alley, leaning against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, a sob wracking his body as he leans forward, one hand to his forehead. _You always knew this could happen_ , he thinks. _Stupid to get your hopes up._

“Stop it, stop it,” he whispers to himself, inhaling deeply. Eliot said he just needs some time, but Quentin can’t stop the part of himself that’s trashing the room, flipping over tables, curling up into a ball on the floor thinking over and over, _You’re going to be alone for the rest of your life._

He remembers his phone in his pocket, and he pulls it out, not even looking at any of his notifications as it opens right back to his thread with Kady. He texts her— _It didn’t go great. But I’m okay. Gonna walk around a bit before I head back._ The little dots pop up immediately, and her response just seconds later— _Are you sure? I can go get you._

 _I’m sure. I’ll text if I’m not. Thanks._ Her response— _Do I need to go kick his ass?_ Along with a knife and a skull and crossbones emoji. Quentin’s sure they live in her ‘frequently used’ list.

He smiles in spite of himself and replies, _Not tonight. Let’s revisit tomorrow. I won’t be long._

He takes a few more deep breaths, the brick of the building cold against the back of his head. Eliot just needs more time. And he’s right. Dr. King, the other therapists Quentin talked to during group, had cautioned against getting into a relationship while recovering. They’d always talk about how you should make sure you can take care of yourself before you bring someone else into the relationship. _What if you can never take care of yourself?_ Quentin thinks. And then he forces the thought away. Eliot’s doing the smart thing. The brave thing.

Quentin’s heart is breaking all over again, splintering and cracking right down the middle, tearing apart all the precious work he’d put into it over the past four months. He turns his head to look at the few people walking along the street, and he sees bright neon lights. The word ‘OPEN’ and familiar liquor signs lighting up the sidewalk.

It would be so easy. To just walk in, order a drink or two, and then keep going until he forgets it all. He’s been doing it for the past five years; what’s one more day?

As soon as the thought enters his head, he forces it out. He didn’t spend four months inpatient, listening to the same sad Taylor Swift and The National songs on Julia’s decade-old MP3 player, to fuck up his progress on night one. Or _any_ night. He has no idea how many days he’s been sober; they’d told him when he checked out, but he wasn’t even listening, so focused on what might be waiting for him at home. He’ll ask Julia when he gets home. She’ll know.

One more deep breath, and he pushes off the wall and walks back onto the sidewalk, ignoring the weight of the watch thumping against his leg.

He walks for a few minutes, no destination in mind, and he's not even surprised when he looks up and finds himself back at the cafe. He deliberately turns away from it, instead heading into the bookstore. He hasn’t been here in months, but it hasn’t changed much. Random stacks of books all over, and it’s nearly empty since it’s almost 9:30pm on a weeknight. He nods to the one employee behind the front counter and tries to distract himself in the books lining the walls.

Not even five minutes later he finds himself in front of the Classics section, and _right there_ are several copies of Romeo & Juliet. He rolls his eyes, turning away, and then turning right back to the shelf, grabbing one at random. He flips through the pages, thinking that he’ll need to get Eliot’s copy back to him. The thought nearly starts a fresh wave of tears, but he reigns it in before he freaks out the employee by sobbing on the floor in the Classics section. He should at least move to the self-help section before he starts all that.

He’s about to walk to the counter to buy the copy in his hands when a voice calls out to him.

“Hey, dude. I think your pants are on fire or something.” Quentin looks up to see the same employee that greeted him looking at his waist, and Quentin follows her gaze, his eyes widening as he sees a beam of light shining out of his pants pocket. He almost laughs, thinking of how Margo would make some crack about how the light at the end of the tunnel leads straight to his dick.

“Uhhh, thanks,” he says, reaching in and pulling out the pocket watch. It’s radiating light, bright and true, the beam of light shining directly through the gaps in the shelves, onward through the store window. The angle of the light is moving as he stares at it, turning almost like a compass, and then it stops pointing right at the end of the aisle. 

Quentin is still gaping, thinking _Eliot_ , and then he hears someone call his name. He jerks his head up and there he is, standing at the end of the aisle, the light from the watch disappearing into his open palm. Quentin thinks of that string that snaps between them so often, tight and bright and delicate and so fucking strong.

“Eliot,” he says. Then he’s not saying anything because Eliot’s crossed down the aisle in three long steps and his hands are cradling Quentin’s face as he kisses him. Quentin freezes, until his brain catches up. He drops the watch and the book and pushes up on his toes, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s waist as he kisses him back.

Quentin’s mind blanks out; the only sensations registering are Eliot’s lips warm against his own and Eliot’s cold fingers cradling his face. One of Eliot’s hands slips down to the side of Quentin’s neck, his thumb brushing gently over Quentin’s ear. Quentin fists into Eliot’s shirt, pulling him in as close as possible, until their bodies are flush against each other. Quentin doesn’t know if this is goodbye or what, but he’s going to take anything he can get.

Eliot pulls back, their lips separating with an audible pop, and Quentin breathes heavily as he takes in Eliot’s wild hair and his eyes, wide and shining with love as he looks down at Quentin and smiles. Then Eliot inhales a shaky breath, and says, “I’m saying right now.”

“What?” Quentin says, his brain blue-screening. _What the fuck is happening?_ “What—Right now what?”

“Earlier. I said _not_ right now. I changed my mind. Right now.”

Quentin’s heart soars in his chest, and he laughs in Eliot’s face, short and breathy and completely disbelieving. “You—I—What about not being ready?”

Eliot rolls his eyes like _Quentin_ is the one being an idiot right now. “Is anyone ever _ready_ for the rest of their life, Quentin? I don’t want to wait. Waiting is stupid. I know what makes me happy, and it’s _you_. I love you. I want to _date_ you. I want to be your boring, sober boyfriend in a boring, stable relationship where we go on vacations together to cabins—or beaches, a beach would be fine too—and I hold your hand in public and Margo ditches us because we’re cramping her style and I tell you about my thesis and we complain about how good it would be to get drunk, and then instead of drinking we fuck.” Eliot searches Quentin’s face, his thumb moving up to swipe over Quentin’s cheekbones. “Do you still want—”

He’s cut off by Quentin surging back up into a kiss, smiling into Eliot’s mouth, more fucking tears streaming down his face, _goddammit_ will he never stop crying. “Fuck, yes I do,” he says in between kisses. They’re both smiling and crying and trying to kiss each other’s lips, neck, anything they can while staying as close as possible. “I love you,” Quentin whispers, pulling away just enough to tilt his head back and look into Eliot’s eyes.

“I love you, too,” he says, trailing his fingers down Quentin’s face. Then he ducks down for another kiss, pushing Quentin backwards, right into one of those tall ass stacks of books Quentin always knew he was destined to run into.

It turns out they’re _not_ spelled to stay upright, which is just fucking stupid—like they have magical texts here, they’re not a muggle shop, so it’s really their own fault. Quentin falls ass over feet backwards onto the floor, pulling Eliot down on top of him. He breaks out laughing as the lone employee of the store looks at them and sighs.

“Shit,” Quentin says, his arms still wrapped around Eliot’s waist. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking amazing,” Eliot says, leaning forward to kiss him again. Quentin responds immediately, even with books digging into his back, until Eliot pulls away, looking up at a figure looming over them.

“Look, I’m real glad y’all found each other and all, but please stop. You’re damaging the books.” The employee, who’s name tag reads ‘Courtney,’ is staring down at them with her arms crossed. Her dark eyes are narrowed but she has a slight smile on her face, so Quentin figures she’s not really that upset.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Quentin says as Eliot moves off him, laughing as he extends a hand to help him up. “We’ll clean it up.”

“It’s fine,” Courtney says, her fingers already moving. Quentin watches as the books start floating and aligning themselves back into a messy stack. “Happens way too often. Not usually this exciting when it does, though.”

They help anyway, though Courtney keeps saying they just get in the way. Quentin picks the pocket watch up from the floor, which Eliot promptly snatches from his hand, stuffing it in his pocket as they leave the store and Courtney, who Quentin is sure is breathing a sigh of relief.

“Hey, you gave that to me,” Quentin says, sliding his hand into Eliot’s as they walk down the street. 

“I _loaned_ it to you,” Eliot says, squeezing Quentin's palm, smiling down at him. “I always intended to get it back.”

“Yeah?” Quentin asks softly.

“Yeah,” Eliot confirms. He stops walking, pulling Quentin over in front of a closed restaurant, so that they’re out of the way of foot traffic. “I’m sorry I freaked out earlier. I’ve been thinking about this moment for so long, and seeing you, having you say you still wanted me, touching you…” He looks away, then to the ground. “All I could think about was how Vikki told me most relationships in recovery don’t work.”

“I’ve gotten that speech too,” Quentin says, pulling Eliot closer so they’re just inches away. Eliot reaches up with his free hand and tucks a few strands of hair behind Quentin’s ear, letting his hand rest on the side of Quentin’s neck. 

“As soon as you left, I knew I fucked up. I went after you but couldn’t find you, texted you and you didn’t answer, and then I texted Julia who told me you were still walking around. Thought I might get lucky with the watch.” Eliot leans down and kisses Quentin, short and chaste, pulling back slightly. Quentin can still feel his breath blowing over his lips.

“You haven’t gotten lucky yet,” Quentin says, smirking. Eliot smiles down at him, tugging Quentin in until he’s pressed up against Eliot’s body. He lowers his head so his mouth is hovering above Quentin’s ear.

“Yet,” Eliot says. “What can we do about that? I’d invite you back to my place, but you’re kind of banned.”

Quentin laughs, leaning forward and pressing his nose into Eliot’s neck, placing wet kisses along his throat. “Mine probably has a threesome going on right now.”

“That sounds like fun,” Eliot says, pulling Quentin’s earlobe lightly between his teeth.

“To _you_ ,” he grumbles. Eliot chuckles, and Quentin pulls away slightly so he can look Eliot in the eye, and also stop himself from mauling him on the street. “You said earlier, you wanna date me. I believe the word ‘boyfriend’ was mentioned?”

“It sure was,” Eliot says, grinning, his eyes shining down at Quentin. 

“So you wanna go out on a date? I’m free tomorrow. Friday. Saturday. Every night for the foreseeable future, and I would very much like to be your unemployed boyfriend.”

“So much for my plan for you to be my Sugar Daddy,” Eliot says. Then he frowns. “Which never would have worked out, since we all know who’s the Daddy in this relationship.”

Quentin chuckles, and Eliot leans down for another kiss. The sharp hum of desire courses through Quentin’s veins, and he grabs Eliot’s jacket, pulling him in closer. By the time they pull away, they’re both panting into each other’s mouths, Eliot glancing around the street, Quentin staring up at Eliot.

“We should probably keep moving so we don’t get arrested. You want to walk around for a bit?” Eliot adjusts Quentin’s shirt collar and presses his hair back into place.

“I’d love to,” Quentin says. He grabs Eliot’s hand and slots their fingers together as they walk down the sidewalk.

He has no idea where they’re going, and he doesn’t really care.

~~~

_Eliot_

“Okay. This is it.” He nods to the mirror, turning it slightly so he can see Margo’s face behind him. “It is? Right?” He turns back to her, eyes wide.

She’s leaning both hands back on the bed, and she gives him a withering glance. “It fucking better be. We’ve been in here two fucking hours.”

“Not helpful,” Eliot mutters, turning back to the mirror. Teal floral button-down oxford shirt, dark blue vest, matching damask tie, and blue dotted skinny trousers. “A lot of blue,” he says to himself, straightening his tie.

Margo slides up behind him, hands curling up and over his shoulders as she peeks around him, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “But it’s the little nerd’s favorite color. Plus you match the wallpaper downstairs.”

She turns him around, squeezing his forearms and smiling up at him. “You look incredible. Not like it matters, you could show up dressed like a Red Shirt with Han Solo’s blaster hanging from your waist and he’d still fuck you.”

“I’m not following,” he says, blinking down at her.

“Of course you’re not.” Margo says, smiling. She reaches up, pressing back a few stubborn locks of his hair. He bats her hand away, and pulls her into a hug, tucking her under his chin.

“I already texted him that if he hurts you again I’ll enchant his favorite dildo to turn into a cactus at an… appropriate time. Make sure you reinforce that message for me, kay?”

“Jesus, Bambi,” Eliot says, a warmth spreading throughout his chest, even as he chuckles nervously. “Bloodthirsty much?” She pulls away, watching as Eliot picks up the pocket watch from his dresser. “You know about his favorite dildo? I need details.”

Margo smirks at him, walking over and smoothing his tie. Normally he’d be irritated at her fussiness, but tonight he appreciates it. Needs it, even. “You can call me,” she tells him, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Anytime you need. You know that, right?” Her dark eyes flicker up to his, and the worry he sees there clenches at his heart. She’s had that look in her eye far too often lately.

“I think I’ve proven in the past few months that I do know that,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “But tonight… I think I’ll be okay. No check-ins needed. And you can have your life back. But not too much,” he adds, smiling down at her. “I’ve gotten used to a daily dose of Bambi.”

“Everyone should be so lucky,” she agrees. Then she pushes up on her toes, pecking his lips. “If it goes well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. If not, tell me where to point my magnum.”

“I don’t want to be presumptuous. Maybe we’ll take it slow.” Margo’s eyebrows raise, and he smirks. “We probably won’t,” he admits, smiling.

A half-hour later he’s at Julia’s door, trying to soothe his anxiety before he knocks on the door. He’d had a spark of nervousness in his stomach all day, and in the past ten minutes it blossomed into a live wire, sparking all over his body as he walked the short distance between the Brakebills portal and Julia’s penthouse. He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous before a date, before anything, but—this is Quentin. Quentin beyond all the drama and heartache (hopefully) and just normal life.

They’d texted plenty the past two days, even had a late-night phone call the night before (that stayed completely chaste, even if loaded with tension—Quentin had explicitly said _We’re not having phone sex_ and Eliot replied _Are you sure because that’s the type of thing that leads to phone sex_ and then Quentin said _I want our second first time—my first time with my_ boyfriend _—to be in person and not me hiding under the covers while Penny is doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with my best friends ten feet away_ and Eliot had melted more than a little bit. And he jerked off right after they hung up). It felt as if they were picking up right where they left off, save Quentin’s job and their sobriety and the fact that the universe won’t (shouldn’t) collapse if they’re seen in public together.

Eliot knocks and then immediately berates himself for not bringing flowers, but before his brain can get any further than _dammit_ , the door is opening and Quentin is sliding out, shutting it firmly behind him. Eliot barely gets a good look at him before he’s on the move.

“Hey,” he says, smiling up at Eliot, pushing up for a quick kiss. Then he’s sliding his hand into Eliot’s and pulling him down the hall. “Let’s go, make sure we’re not late for the reservation.”

“We have plenty of time, Q,” Eliot says, bewildered. “No need to rush—”

The penthouse door opens and Eliot turns to see Julia stepping out, her phone in her hand. “Quentin!” she says. “God, I just wanted _one_ picture.”

“I _told_ you I’d _send_ you one,” Quentin replies, nearly through gritted teeth as he repeatedly presses the button for the elevator.

Eliot laughs at them, sending a smile to Julia, shrugging in apology. “I’ll make sure you get one.” 

Kady pokes her head out the door behind Julia, wearing her typical smirk. “Looking good, Eliot,” she says. “You boys have fun.” She waves and giggles in a very unKady like fashion, then she pulls a still-protesting Julia back into the apartment.

“Sorry,” Quentin says as the elevator finally arrives. Eliot follows him in as he continues, “I think she's almost more excited for this date than we are.”

“Mmm, not possible,” Eliot says, dipping his head for another, longer, deeper kiss. When he pulls back, Quentin’s hands are clutching the lapels of his jacket, lips turned up into a smile. 

He’s wearing a tight grey button-down, which Eliot thinks is new from the look of it, and it stretches over his chest in a way that Eliot is pretty sure he has yoga and the pool at the clinic to thank for. He’s wearing his leather jacket, the one from that first night at the bar. Skinny black jeans and a low bun complete the look, and already Eliot is imagining pulling his hair out of the tie and threading his fingers through it.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Eliot murmurs, reaching up and trailing his fingers down the side of Quentin’s face.

“Contacts,” Quentin says. “Okay?” A flash of insecurity passes over his face, like glasses might be the deal-breaker in if Eliot wants to be with him or not.

“You know I love the hot, studious professor look, but I also love your face, glasses or not.” Eliot slips one hand inside Quentin’s jacket, resting on his waist. “We don’t _really_ need to go to dinner. Or we can go after.”

“After what?” Quentin says, and Eliot can hear the smirk in his voice.

“After I—” Eliot stops as the elevator doors open to three people waiting to get on, and he snaps his mouth shut, looking meaningfully down at Quentin, who smiles and kisses the underside of Eliot’s jaw.

They make their way to the restaurant, laughing and talking, hands clasped together or an arm wrapped around the other's waist. It used to be that they constantly touched whenever they were alone because it was such a rare commodity they had to indulge when they had the chance, but now every nuzzle, kiss and caress is a reminder of what wasn’t and what now is, what can be. Eliot knows the newness of it all will wear off eventually, but right now, he relishes the little shiver that goes through Quentin’s body as Eliot lets his hand rest on the small of his back as they walk to their table.

They’d tossed around suggestions about where to go, and when Quentin had said how much he liked sharing plates with Eliot in Asheville, the decision was made. Tapas it was, and now they’re sitting next to the window in a dimly lit restaurant, hands already clasped on the small table top. As Quentin leans forward, Eliot thinks he’ll never get tired of how Quentin gravitates towards him, angles his body towards Eliot, tilts his face up for a kiss automatically.

Their waiter approaches, placing a wine list in front of them, which Quentin stares at with wide eyes, like he forgot liquor was a thing that existed for a second, and Eliot gracefully hands it back to the waiter, requesting sparkling water instead. Quentin orders a soda and they look over the menu, Eliot’s thumb idly swiping over Quentin’s knuckles.

“I’ll try anything,” Quentin says, setting his menu down, eyes immediately to Eliot’s. 

“Really?” Eliot says distractedly, his mind immediately moving away from squid inked rice and pork belly and cheese plates to even more delectable topics. “Anything?”

“If you’re into it, I’m into it,” Quentin says, his eyes sparkling. Eliot’s mouth goes dry as Quentin turns his hand over, slotting their fingers together and squeezing.

Their waiter reappears then, _perfect timing_ Eliot thinks sarcastically, and he rattles off a few dishes to get them started. Once they’re left alone again Eliot looks at Quentin, his brown eyes reflecting the candlelight, his smile the most brilliant thing Eliot’s seen in years.

“I’m into _you_ ,” Eliot says softly, nuding Quentin’s foot under the table.

“I’m in love with you,” Quentin replies simply, sliding his calf along Eliot’s. _Jesus when did it get so hot in here_ , Eliot thinks, shifting in his seat as he begs his dick to calm the fuck down.

“I love you too,” Eliot murmurs softly, his face heating up under the soft lights. “We should get the check.”

Quentin laughs, his fingers moving further down Eliot’s hand, touching his wrist. Was his touch always this intoxicating? Eliot can feel Quentin’s fingertips all over his body, dancing along his neck, trailing down his chest. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”

“I’ve never been less hungry. For food, at least,” Eliot says lightly. “We should have an actual conversation. Distract me from mauling you over this table that could never hold our weight.”

Quentin smiles at him, his fingers continuing their journey up and down Eliot’s palm, circling his wrist and back again. “I talked to Kady today,” he says, a smile playing on his lips as he looks down at their joined hands. “She wants to… hire me.” 

“Really?” Eliot’s not completely surprised; he knew Quentin would land somewhere, and since Kady is apparently pretty far up the hedge food chain, it makes sense she’d find a place for him. “Doing what?”

“Teaching,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t even believe the word is coming out of his mouth. “Well, that and other stuff? They’re trying to set up, like, a whole hedge institution. They have some old warehouse in Queens they’re renovating into a safe house. She wants to have regular classes, for the non-Brakebills population, I guess. And sell or barter magical services in the city, which they already do, but ‘for actual money and shit,’ to quote Kady. She’s gonna take me to see the safe house tomorrow, meet some of the other people in charge.”

“Wow,” Eliot says, taking Quentin’s hand and squeezing it. “That’s amazing. I knew the hedges were growing in the city, but I didn’t realize how much.” He smirks at Quentin, his mind turning the idea over. “So we could be school rivals one day.”

Quentin snorts. “Yeah well, I didn’t go to any high school or college football games, so I doubt I’ll attend any Welter’s matches.” Then, as one corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile, he adds, “Unless you’ll be on the Brakebills cheerleading squad. Couldn’t miss that.”

Eliot teases, “Short skirts do make my legs look even longer.” His smile broadens as Quentin nearly chokes on the sip of water he’d taken.

“Well,” Quentin says after he’s cleared his throat, “I get the impression it’s all very new. So we’ll see how it goes. So maybe don’t order your uniform just yet.”

“No reason we have to wait on that fantasy,” Eliot purrs, his fingers sliding inside the cuff of Quentin’s shirt, teasing the delicate skin of his wrist, and further up his forearm. “Or any others you may have in mind.”

Quentin leans in at the same time Eliot does, their lips meeting over the table. It’s a short kiss, full of the same promises Eliot sees reflected in Quentin’s eyes when he pulls away.

“The only fantasy I want right now is sitting across from me,” Quentin says, tangling their fingers together. “And I don’t know how I got so lucky that it’s not a fantasy anymore; it’s my reality.” His eyes grow softer as he looks at Eliot, his gaze dropping to Eliot’s lips and then back again. “I know there’s still a lot to talk about. And a long road ahead. But this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

A tenderness creeps up Eliot’s chest, enveloping his heart, sweeping throughout his entire body. His mouth goes dry, and all he can manage is a soft, “Me too,” before Quentin’s leaning in again, one hand cradling Eliot’s cheek as he kisses him, soft and slow. Eliot’s about to say fuck the food, toss some bills down and head back to Julia’s when a throat clearing pulls their attention away. They look up to see their waiter with their plates, and Eliot resigns himself to somehow making it through dinner without humping the table or Quentin.

It’s all delicious, the food and the company and the conversation. It crosses Eliot’s mind more than once which wines would have paired best with their meal, and he lets the thought pass through him. One day he won’t look at a plate of risotto and start cataloging what white wines he has on hand, or wonder how an unfamiliar brand of tequila pairs with the mixers he has on hand. That day is very far away. Or maybe it’ll never come at all.

Quentin grins at him as he spears a mushroom. “This was a good idea,” he says before he pops it in his mouth. “Throw back to the OG first date.”

Eliot holds back a snort as he shakes his head fondly. “Yes, Q. OG tapas.” Quentin’s leg slides forward, rubbing against Eliot’s calf. Eliot smiles, pressing back, enjoying the surge of warmth spreading through his body. God, he missed this. 

The smile suddenly falls off Eliot’s face when he spots a familiar figure walking their way from the entrance of the restaurant. His blood freezes in his veins, and he looks between the man approaching them and Quentin, smiling obliviously.

Quentin leans back in his chair, not noticing Eliot’s change in demeanor, tapping his fork lightly against the table. “I was nervous that night. So convinced Henry was going to like, pop up out of nowhere and find us. In _North Carolina_.” He chuckles and poises his fork over a plate, ready to grab a piece of chicken.

“That worry might be more valid tonight,” Eliot mutters, his eyes still over Quentin’s shoulder.

“What?” Quentin asks, looking up to Eliot, and then follows his gaze to the man walking up to their table. “Henry,” he says in surprise, blinking up at the dean. “Hi.”

“Quentin,” Fogg says, a slight smile on his face. “Eliot,” he says, nodding. “I saw you through the window as I was passing by. Thought I’d come say hello.”

“Hello,” Eliot intones, meeting Quentin’s gaze across the table. He expected Quentin to look as he expects he does, eyes wide, his nervousness portrayed all over his face. And Quentin does look surprised, but there’s also a trace of annoyance in his eyes. And as Quentin purposefully reaches over and grabs Eliot’s hand, intertwining their fingers, Eliot realizes he’s irritated that Fogg has interrupted their evening. And he’s proving a point. To Fogg. And maybe to Eliot too.

Eliot gives Quentin’s hand a reassuring squeeze and smiles up at the dean. “We’re just enjoying some tapas this fine evening. How are you?”

“Good, good,” Fogg intones. If he’s flustered by their minor display of PDA, he doesn’t show it, his practiced smile the same as it is any other day. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, dark suit and lavender tie. “It’s good to see you, Quentin.” He smiles down at them and Eliot almost believes him. “I’m sorry to disrupt your evening, but I was wondering if I could get a word.” He addresses his request to Quentin, who frowns and looks to Eliot.

Eliot knows he’ll tell Fogg to fuck off with no qualms, and while that would be fun to watch, Eliot has no desire for this to ruin Quentin’s good mood, and their evening. Plus, he does still have to go back to Brakebills at the end of the night (or in the morning), and staying under the radar is still his plan—even if that plan is going off the rails at this very moment.

Eliot tilts his head at Quentin and slightly shrugs his shoulders, and Quentin gives him a short nod. He squeezes Eliot’s hand one more time, looks up to Fogg with a short, “Sure,” and then he’s standing up and following Fogg towards the front door.

As Quentin walks off with Fogg, Eliot realizes they just had an entire conversation without saying a word. Margo is the only person he’s ever had that defined a connection with, and it’s almost startling to him that, even after being separated for over three months, he’s on that level with Quentin.

He can just see them out the window, and he doesn’t even pretend that he’s not staring as they talk. Quentin’s arms are crossed, the scowl on his face almost comical, reminding Eliot of when he’d told Quentin he never read the Fillory books because he thought they were just a poor man’s Harry Potter. His posture relaxes though, as Fogg talks, his arms uncrossing and the look on his face becoming more surprised, his brow furrowing and eyes darting around as they talk. Eliot’s curiosity grows as he watches, especially when Quentin gets really passionate about whatever he’s saying, his arms moving, hands gesturing as words fly out of his mouth, Fogg nodding along, and at one point Fogg raises his hands in mock surrender as Quentin shakes his head and chuckles. By the time the two men shake hands and Fogg departs, nodding to Eliot as he passes by the front window, Eliot’s about ready to vibrate out of his seat.

“So,” Eliot says as Quentin sits back down. “That looked intense and cathartic and almost friendly, at the end. What’d he want?”

“He… apologized,” Quentin says, easily reclaiming Eliot’s hand, as the expression on his face shows he’s still processing the past several minutes. “Not for firing me, I really left him no other choice, but for not paying more attention for the past five years, I guess.”

“Huh,” Eliot says. “That’s… surprising.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees. “But I told him he didn’t need to apologize for that. It’s not his job to babysit his employees. But I told him it _is_ part of his job to at least provide for their, and the students', mental health.”

“Really?” Eliot says, eyebrows raised. “How’d that go over?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin says. “But I said my piece. He said he’d ‘take my comments under advisement.’” Quentin mimics the dean’s deep voice, and Eliot chuckles as he takes another sip of his water. “He also said he was glad that I was out of treatment, that I look happy.” He squeezes Eliot’s hand and leans forward. “The most surprising thing he said was that after you graduate, I can have my alumni key back.”

Eliot smiles, and Quentin smiles back, so big it’s nearly blinding. “So you’re not banned anymore? Pending my successful graduation? I assume he thinks the temptation for you to bend me over his desk will prove too much?”

“I guess so,” Quentin says, laughing. “Which is a relief, to know that I’m not banned from my alma mater. I’ll be able to access the library again. There’s no other resource like it, although I’d like to try to build one.”

“In the new safe house?”

“Yeah.” Quentin nods, then he laughs again. “Wow,” he says. “So much has happened in the past two days.” Running his thumb over Eliot’s wrist, he says, “I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

The waiter interrupts before Eliot can respond, clearing their plates and asking about desserts. Eliot says, “Check please,” before Quentin has any chance to respond.

“You ready to go?” Quentin asks, his tone teasing. “I thought we’d eat more, get dessert, walk around the city for a while…” He laughs at the look Eliot gives him, and then says, “So Julia and Kady are at Penny’s place tonight. We should have the penthouse to ourselves, if you want—”

“Yes,” Eliot interrupts. “I very much want.” Then, hesitantly he adds, “If you want?”

“Oh I also want,” Quentin says, his fingers trailing around the edge of Eliot’s cuff. “So much.”

~~~

“So this is normally the part where I’d offer you a drink,” Quentin mutters against Eliot’s mouth as he pushes the penthouse door closed with his foot. “But all we have in the house is water, Diet Coke, and whatever flavor water that soda thing Julia got will pump out. And, you know, the whole recovering alcoholics thing.”

“I have everything I need,” Eliot says, his lips trailing down Quentin’s jaw as his hands slip inside his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders and onto the floor. “Same room as before?” he whispers, pulling Quentin towards the guest room he’d been in last time.

“Yeah,” Quentin whispers. “But—” He’s cut off by Eliot’s lips covering his own, and he groans as Eliot untucks Quentin’s shirt and slips his hands up the warm skin of Quentin’s back. “Fuck, that feels so good,” Quentin says into his mouth. “I missed you touching me. Touching you. But— _god_ —maybe we—talk—first?”

Eliot trails his lips down Quentin’s jaw, one hand moving to splay over Quentin’s belly while the other slides down to grip his ass. “You usually do plenty of talking while touching me, from what I remember.” He squeezes Quentin’s ass, his other hand dragging down to hook on Quentin’s belt buckle. 

Quentin has one hand buried in Eliot’s curls, the other clutching the sleeve of Eliot’s jacket. “Fuck,” he exhales, tilting his head back so Eliot has better access. Eliot drags his teeth down Quentin’s throat, the hand on Quentin’s belt buckle moving lower—

“Wait,” Quentin says suddenly, gently grabbing Eliot’s hand that is inches away from Quentin’s cock. Eliot pulls back, looking down at Quentin in concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, fear suddenly grasping his heart in a cold grip. _Something’s wrong._ Is Quentin having second thoughts? Does he want to call the whole thing off? 

“I’m so okay,” Quentin says, one hand falling to the back of Eliot’s neck, lightly carding through the hair there. “I just—we haven’t really talked about—the next steps with this—us. And I—the other night, you—just—are you sure?”

Eliot blinks down at Quentin in confusion, taking in his wide, dark eyes, his swollen lips, red cheeks. Tendrils of hair are falling out of his bun, and Eliot gently pushes them back behind his ear. “Am I sure? What are you asking me, Q?”

Quentin steps back and leans against the back of the couch, placing both hands on Eliot’s hips. He licks his lips as he focuses behind Eliot, and then meets Eliot’s gaze. “The other night, you—left because you were worried. That you weren’t ready. And I get that, I totally do. And I don’t want to move too fast. Again.” He pauses, swallowing, his hands pressing hard into Eliot’s hips.

Eliot swallows, his eyes flickering around the darkened apartment as he tries to understand what Quentin is saying. “I don’t—do you not want to do this? I mean I’m fine if you want to hit the brakes, go… slow,” Eliot says, the word thick on his tongue because he’s pretty sure his cock cut the brake line two days ago. “I mean if _you’re_ not ready—”

“Fuck, god, no. Shit, I’m fucking this up.” Quentin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Eliot, I’m _ready_. I’m all fucking in. I love you and I want to be with you, in all the ways. Emotionally, physically, sexually, magically, everything. I just…” He sighs, his eyes flickering away, insecurity written all over his face. “I want to make sure this is what you want too. That I’m not pushing you too hard, too fast. Recovery, for both of us, is too important to fuck up.”

Eliot smiles down at Quentin, one hand reaching to pull the elastic out of Quentin’s hair. He watches as it cascades down around his shoulders, and Eliot tosses the hair tie off into the darkness. “Q,” he says, fingers threading through Quentin’s soft strands. “I’m all fucking in. I know the risks, and I think I—we have a better chance of staying sober together than we do apart. I know I probably gave you whiplash the other night, and I’m sorry for that. I’m not going to tell you I’m never going to get scared and freak out again, because that is entirely likely, but—I love you. I want to make love to you. Tonight. Every night. For a long fucking time. Okay?” He gazes down into Quentin’s eyes, watching as the insecurity fades into a smile, Quentin’s hands coming up to loosely wrap around Eliot’s wrists.

“Okay,” Quentin says. And then he stands up into a kiss, pressing his body flush against Eliot’s. “Come on.” He steps away, grabbing Eliot’s hand and pulling him into the same guest room he stayed in last time.

Eliot closes the door behind them, and then he’s pressed up against it as Quentin is on him, his hands pressing Eliot’s hips against the door, his mouth hot and insistent as he kisses Eliot. It’s intoxicating, the taste of Quentin, something Eliot almost thought he’d never experience again. He moans into Quentin’s mouth, his cock hardening against his thigh.

“You’re so sexy,” Quentin says, his hands moving to Eliot’s vest, unbuttoning it as he nuzzles Eliot’s jaw. “I missed this. Unwrapping you from all these fucking layers.”

“I missed your hands on me,” Eliot whispers back, angling his head back against the door, shivering as Quentin drags his tongue across Eliot’s throat. “And your mouth. Fuck, you have no idea how often I jerked off these past few months to the thought of your tongue on my dick.”

“Yeah?” Quentin says, shoving Eliot’s vest off, working on his tie next. “I thought about you. A lot. I couldn’t, uh, finding the right meds kind of killed my sex drive—” He cuts himself off as he loosens Eliot’s tie, flustered. “Sorry, now I’m killing the mood.”

“No,” Eliot says, snaking one hand between them, cupping Quentin’s hard dick in his hand. Quentin hisses, pressing into the touch. “Sex drive doesn’t seem to be a problem now,” he says, his fingers deftly opening Quentin’s pants.

“It’s not,” Quentin pants, tugging at Eliot’s tie, unable to untangle it and finally just pulling it off over Eliot’s head. “It came roaring back a month ago. I’ve jerked off so many times in the past two days I’m surprised it didn’t fall off.”

Eliot chuckles as Quentin tosses the tie onto the nearby nightstand and sets to work on Eliot’s shirt buttons. He’s so intent on his task, eyes focused on Eliot’s chest as the shirt falls open that he doesn’t notice Eliot’s hand sliding into his boxers until Eliot’s fingers wrap around his hard cock.

“Feels firmly attached,” Eliot breathes, stroking Quentin from base to tip. Quentin presses his face into the space between his neck and shoulder, his hot breath blowing over Eliot’s skin.

“Fuck,” he gasps, thrusting into Eliot’s fist. “You—You gotta stop,” he says. “I’m not gonna last long. Like, at all.”

Eliot’s dick is hard, pressing against his pants, and it thickens further at the desperation in Quentin’s voice. He uses his free hand to shove Quentin’s pants and boxers down his thighs, and continues working Quentin’s cock, thumbing at the head to smooth the wetness leaking there all over the shaft. 

“That’s okay,” he says, his voice gruff as he pushes Quentin’s hair out of his face. Quentin tilts his head back up to look at Eliot, his eyes so dark they’re practically black, his lips parted as he gazes at Eliot in a near daze. Eliot drinks it in; he’ll never need drugs to get him high as long as Quentin keeps looking at him like that. “We have plenty of time.” He leans down and kisses Quentin, deep and dirty, his tongue slipping inside as he pumps his fist faster.

“Fuck.” Quentin pulls his face away, pressing it into Eliot’s neck, panting as he pushes into Eliot’s grip. “Talk to me,” Quentin says. “Tell me.” He drops one hand between Eliot’s legs, palming his hard dick. 

“Tell you what, baby?” Eliot asks, his tone easy and teasing even as his hand stutters from Quentin’s touch. He arches his back slightly, pressing into Quentin’s fingers. “How much I’ve thought about this? How much I missed hearing you come?”

“Yes,” Quentin hisses, the hand he has on Eliot’s back digging in, nails dragging down the skin. “God I missed you. I thought I’d never—we’d never—”

“Shhh,” Eliot says, tilting Quentin’s head back and kissing him slowly, licking into his mouth until Quentin pulls his head away, gasping. “We’re together now. You gonna come for me? Or do you need me on my knees, in my mouth, sucking you until you come down my throat? Is that what you want?” Eliot feels a little delirious as he speaks, overwhelmed with Quentin’s scent in his nostrils, Quentin’s breath blowing over his face, the gasps falling out of his mouth.

“You’re close, aren’t you? Come on, baby.” They haven’t even made it beyond the door of the bedroom and already Quentin’s scratching down Eliot’s back, teeth sinking into the soft skin of his shoulder as a shudder runs through his body. “I want you to come all over my hand, and lick it off before you blow me.”

Quentin lets out a garbled noise and comes, spurting between them, Eliot all but holding him up as his knees threaten to buckle. Eliot works him through it, Quentin panting into Eliot’s neck until he pulls away.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin says, pushing his hair back, his grip on Eliot’s back relaxing, soothing as his hand slides to Eliot’s waist. He presses his face into Eliot’s chest, placing a small kiss on his sternum. “My memories don’t do you justice,” he says, shoving his pants and underwear the rest of the way down his legs.

“That’s sweet, I think,” Eliot says as Quentin kicks off his pants and then turns his attention to Eliot’s hand, still shiny with Quentin’s come. Realizing Quentin’s intention as he pulls it towards his face, Eliot says, “You don’t really—” The words die on his lips as Quentin pulls Eliot’s forefinger into his mouth, lips puckering around it as he sucks it all the way in, his tongue stroking it like he’s trying to get every ounce of flavor out of a hard candy.

Eliot did _not_ expect to like this as much as he does. The sight of Quentin’s cheeks hollowing out as he gives equal attention to every finger, sucking them clean, moaning like the taste of his own jizz is as succulent as his favorite dessert, combined with the warm wetness of Quentin’s mouth has Eliot’s thighs tightening, his dick straining so hard against his pants he’s half-afraid it’ll pop a seam.

After Quentin’s licked up every drop, he drops to his knees, his hands working on Eliot’s fly. Eliot watches him as he pulls Eliot’s cock free, stroking it once before dragging his hands down Eliot’s legs, shoving Eliot’s pants down and off. Quentin looks up, meeting Eliot’s gaze as he caresses Eliot’s thighs, nuzzling his cock with his nose.

“I missed this, too,” Quentin says, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe from head to base. Eliot gently runs a hand through Quentin’s hair, the softness of it sending him back to when he thought would be the last time he ever touched it. That night that seems so long ago, in the Observatory Tower, when he’d kissed Quentin, trying to show him, _make him see_ that they could make it through anything. As long as they were together.

So much has happened since then, even though it was only a few short months ago. And even with all the bullshit they’ve been through since that night, he’s not sure he’d change a single moment. Not if it got him here, to this room, this moment with Quentin.

Quentin’s hands circle around to palm Eliot’s ass, squeezing each cheek as he licks at Eliot’s balls. Eliot’s fingers tighten in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin says, “Touch me as much as you want. Fuck my mouth, I wanna feel you in my throat.” Then he takes Eliot’s hard cock in his mouth, showing it just as much attention as he did every one of Eliot’s fingers just moments earlier.

 _Fuck_ , it's like no time has passed. Quentin knows exactly how Eliot likes it, how to send him to the edge and then pull him back, until Eliot's legs are quaking and he's fisting into Quentin's hair, begging to come down Quentin's throat.

Quentin’s always known, though. From that first night in his darkened office, Quentin figured out how to turn Eliot's body into a tight string, one he can play and pluck until Eliot has no choice but to snap. 

Quentin bobs on Eliot’s dick, breathing through his nose, one hand covering what his mouth can't, the other firmly gripping Eliot's ass, encouraging him to move, use Quentin’s mouth for his own pleasure. Eliot lightly thrusts, babbling as Quentin takes him deeper, tongue firmly on the underside of his cock.

"I love your pretty little mouth, Q, you have no idea. How much I missed this, wanted you, _fuck_ , wanna come down your throat." He looks down and watches his cock move in and out of Quentin’s mouth, a few tears streaming down Quentin’s face from the effort. Eliot wipes one away and Quentin meets his gaze, pulling off to take a breath before diving right back in.

It’s only seconds later when that familiar tightness coils in Eliot’s thighs; the overwhelming promise of bliss surging through his body that only Quentin seems to be able to pull out of him. Quentin moves one hand from Eliot’s ass to his balls, then back to trace his perineum, to barely tease at the hole just beyond. His fingers are slick, Eliot has no idea when that happened, and Quentin presses the tip against his entrance just as his other hand grips Eliot’s ass tighter, nails digging in. Eliot comes hard down Quentin’s throat, his eyes falling shut as waves of pleasure crest all over his body, his legs shaky as Quentin swallows it all down.

Eliot pulls away, resting his weight against the door as Quentin gets to his feet. Eliot wraps his arms around him, Quentin is still wearing his shirt, what the fuck, and drags him in for a kiss, licking into his mouth where he can still taste himself.

He pulls back, Eliot’s face damp with sweat, Quentin’s with tears, and says, “Hey.”

Quentin leans heavily against him and smiles. “Hi,” he says. “Welcome to my bedroom. This is the doorway. Would you like to see the rest of the space?”

Eliot laughs, his head tilting back. “Just the bed, I think. And take off your fucking shirt, I want you naked.”

Eliot falls heavily on the bed, his feet hanging off as he lays sideways. Quentin joins him, now fully naked, pillowing his head on Eliot’s shoulder, throwing one leg over Eliot’s calf. They lay there for a minute, Eliot staring at the ceiling, enjoying the weight of Quentin’s body on his as one hand brushes through Quentin’s hair. He presses a kiss against Quentin’s scalp, replaying the past few hours in his mind.

“I may be biased, but your sex drive appears to be in perfect shape to me.” He feels more than hears Quentin’s chuckle against his chest.

“Yeah, I forgot how new meds can fuck with your body. Not that I was really ‘in the mood’ anyway. At least until I got your book. Everything seemed to click back on then.” He angles his head up, pressing a kiss into Eliot’s neck. “Thank you for sending it.”

Eliot is still looking at the ceiling, his chest swirling at the earnestness in Quentin’s voice. A wave of guilt creeps over him, and he has to blink away the tears suddenly forming in his eyes. _What the fuck, get a grip._ “I’m sorry I didn’t visit,” he says quietly. “But after your letters, I wanted to send you something and I thought that would say what I couldn’t really put into words.”

Quentin pushes up on one elbow, so he’s leaning over Eliot, his hair falling in his face. Eliot reaches up, one corner of his mouth pulling up as he tries to push it behind Quentin’s ear.

“Stop apologizing,” Quentin says, his eyes flickering over Eliot’s face. “I loved getting that book. With all your notes and drawings… and the watch. Casting the spell without even knowing if I could see it. You were there with me, El. Every day.” He leans down, Eliot’s hand slipping to the back of Quentin’s neck as they kiss, sweet and slow.

When he pulls back, Eliot’s forgotten what he was apologizing for, one hand gripping the back of Quentin’s neck, the other sliding down Quentin’s chest. It’s firm under his palm, and Eliot pauses over Quentin’s heart, enjoying how it beats a little faster under his fingertips. He lets his eyes drift down Quentin’s naked body, not hiding his appreciation.

“I’m definitely seeing the benefits of yoga now,” he says, and Quentin rolls his eyes, pushing himself off the bed. Eliot sits up, enjoying watching the flex in Quentin’s legs as he grabs a robe off the back of the closet door. His thighs are definitely more muscular than Eliot remembers. He wants to bite them, feel them vibrate under his hands.

“Nice robe,” Eliot comments as Quentin slides on the robe Eliot had given him for Christmas. “I hope it kept you warm at the clinic.”

Quentin gives him a rueful smile as he ties the belt, coming to stand in front of him. “I didn’t bring it. I learned the hard way not to bring anything you value when you go inpatient, if you can help it. I was already taking a chance bringing the watch, so…” He shrugs almost apologetically as he reaches out, running a hand down Eliot’s shoulder and upper arm, almost automatically, like his body always has to be touching Eliot whether he wants it to or not. “I’m gonna go grab some water.” He squeezes Eliot’s arm and then disappears into the front room.

Eliot slips under the covers, the sheets soft against his naked skin, turning on the lamp next to the bed. His old copy of Romeo & Juliet is right there, sitting on the nightstand. He smiles fondly, enjoying the image of Quentin reading it after he’d come home. He picks it up and starts flipping through it, surprised when a few envelopes that were stuck between the pages fall into his lap. He picks them up, reading the names out loud.

“Mom, Dad... Alice.” Eliot swallows over the lump in his throat as he turns the envelopes over in his hands. They’re thin, not sealed, and something clenches inside Eliot’s chest. He knew Quentin has a lot of shit to deal with, that’s what the past three months have been about, but holding evidence of the ghosts that Quentin lives with daily makes it all the more real.

He halfway thinks about reading them, then mentally slaps himself, shoving the letters back into the book. He’s setting it back on the nightstand when Quentin comes back in, a bottle of water in each hand. Quentin hands him one and takes a long gulp from the one in his hand. Eliot takes a sip from his, watching as Quentin tosses the robe over the foot of the bed, sliding naked under the covers next to Eliot.

“I saw your letters,” Eliot blurts out before Quentin can say anything. “Sorry,” he adds, looking down at the bedspread as he sets his water aside. “I didn’t read them.”

Quentin looks at him in confusion, leaning against his pillow, one hand reaching over to settle on Eliot’s thigh. “You didn’t read the letters I sent you?”

“No,” Eliot says. “Of course I read those. I mean these.” He gestures over to the familiar book on the nightstand, not touching it, like it might snap at him. “They fell out when I was looking through it.”

Quentin gives him a crooked grin, looking between Eliot and the book, squeezing Eliot’s thigh under his palm. “That’s okay. Nothing top secret. They’re pretty depressing, actually. And kind of angry.”

Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin, pulling him against his chest. Quentin nestles in, sliding under his chin perfectly as they lean back against the headboard. “I guess I didn’t think about you writing to other people in your life. I mean, you did send the one to Margo that made her cry— _never_ tell her I told you that—but I didn’t think past that.”

Quentin is quiet for a moment, his ear pressed up against Eliot’s collarbone. He nestles in closer, swinging his legs up so he’s halfway in Eliot’s lap. A twinge of heat flickers up in Eliot’s belly at the sigh of Quentin’s shapely thighs settling next to his own, his soft cock peeking out from the sheet he hastily pulls up. Eliot forces his eyes to Quentin’s face as he rests one hand on Quentin’s thigh, the other lightly tracing up and down his back.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, leaning against Eliot, sliding his hand over the one Eliot has on Quentin’s thigh. “It was meant to be a way to communicate my feelings to people I couldn’t, like, say them to. The first one I wrote to you I never meant to send, but, well, you know how that ended.” 

Eliot smiles down at him, twining their fingers together as he kisses Quentin’s forehead. “Did they help?” he asks.

Quentin stares at the window on the other side of the room, where the night sky is just visible among the tall buildings. “Yeah, I think they did,” he says. “I have a lot of regrets, things I wished I’d said, and writing those helped me… let go of some things. Painful things.” He sighs, leaning heavily into Eliot.

Eliot wraps an arm around his waist, squeezing him tight. He closes his eyes as he presses his nose to Quentin’s hair, breathing in the soft scent of Quentin, rosemary and mint from whatever shampoo Julia got for him, combined with the soft musky undertone of sweat and sex. He welcomes Quentin’s weight against him, he’d gladly bear it as long as Quentin needs to get his feet back under him. He wonders how he could have ever entertained a world where this, holding Quentin, sharing in his pain and joy, wasn’t possible.

Quentin nuzzles against Eliot’s neck, his lips grazing Eliot’s collarbones as he speaks. “Besides those in the book and the ones I sent to you, I sent the one to Margo. I didn’t write one to Kady and Julia; I saw them so often I just told them what I wanted to say. I thought about writing one to Penny but I thought it might make him freak out or roll his eyes out of his skull or something.” He scowls and says, “I should have written one and cursed it so when he touched it he couldn’t get an erection for a week.”

“Margo knows a spell for that,” Eliot says idly, brushing his fingers through Quentin’s hair, digging into his scalp. Quentin leans into his touch, shifting against Eliot’s thigh, and _yep_ , his dick is definitely gearing up for round two. 

“Of course she does,” Quentin says, smirking. He’s randomly touching Eliot as he speaks, dragging his palm down Eliot’s chest, holding his hand, sliding his fingers up Eliot’s wrist. Eliot wonders if Quentin has any idea of the effect he has on Eliot. How he can turn him on with a look, send him spiraling with one touch.

“Does it really bother you, that he’s dating Kady and Julia?” Eliot asks, his fingers still moving against Quentin’s scalp.

“No,” Quentin sighs, in a tone that sounds like it very much does bother him. “They’re all _happy_ so it’s _fine_. And yeah, Penny’s a _nice guy_ and I’ll always be _grateful_ for what he’s done for me this year, but he’s also kind of a dick. And he goes from dating _Sunderland_ , like, the hottest professor on campus—”

“Second hottest,” Eliot interrupts, smiling down at Quentin, who rolls his eyes and continues.

“—to dating my two best friends, who are both smokin’ hot, and like. Good for Penny, but also, fuck Penny.”

Eliot laughs, “You know, I’m pretty sure he might be into that.”

Quentin’s already shaking his head, smiling. “Don’t even start. I have my hands full enough with you.”

“Oh, _do you_?” Eliot says, wrapping an arm around Quentin and hauling him up so he’s fully in Eliot’s lap. From the smile forming on his face as he wiggles around to get more comfortable, Eliot’s sure he can feel his stiffening against his thigh.

“I’d like to,” Quentin says, licking up Eliot’s neck, then taking his ear lobe between his teeth. Eliot can’t stop the shiver that shoots through his body as Quentin’s hands wrap around his waist and their bare chests press together. “God knows you have enough for two and then some.”

Eliot laughs, closing his eyes as he tilts his head back. When he opens them, he finds Quentin watching him, his mouth twisted into a soft smile.

“What?” Eliot asks, still chuckling as Quentin adjusts so he’s straddling Eliot, sitting on Eliot’s thighs, wrapping his legs around Eliot’s hips. A small moan escapes Eliot’s lips as Quentin’s half-hard cock brushes his.

“I was just thinking,” Quentin says, “You remember that first night in the Observatory Tower?” He looks almost shyly up at Eliot, a stark contrast to their nudity, placing one hand on Eliot’s waist, the other idly caressing Eliot’s chest, his collarbones, over his neck.

“The first night? When you caught me getting high? And we almost made out? No, don’t recall it at all,” Eliot responds, his hands drifting up and down Quentin’s back as he smiles at Quentin curiously.

Quentin smiles, and he trails his hand down Eliot’s arm, pulling it back in front of him until he can thread his finger’s through Eliot’s. “That night, when you—uh, we, I guess—mended the watch. The first time our magic worked together. Do you remember what I asked you?”

Eliot smiles at the memory, and at Quentin as he pulls their joined hands to his mouth and brushes his lips over their joined fingers. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You asked me what it felt like.”

Quentin nods, his gaze moving between their joined hands and Eliot’s face. “I’ve thought about that a lot. That moment with you. You said, ‘Like I helped it wake up. And remember what it was before.’ And that was when I knew, Eliot. How much trouble I was already in with you.” Quentin’s dark eyes meet Eliot’s, and Eliot’s breath catches in his chest at the emotion he sees in Quentin’s eyes.

“That night was the first night in a really, really long time that I felt… like me again. Like the Quentin that got accepted to Brakebills, who found out magic was real, who thought he could use it to—fucking mend the world, if that’s what needed to be done.” Quentin smiles at Eliot, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. Eliot’s heart pounds against his chest as he watches Quentin, thinking that even in the dull light of a bedside lamp, he’s the most gorgeous creature Eliot’s ever seen.

“I thought that part of me had died along with Alice. And maybe some of it did, but you found what was left, and you just fucking… lit it on fire. I think that’s part of why I ran from you so hard at first, because you scared the shit out of me. Because I knew, god, even that first night I think, that I was gonna love you, and loving again meant losing again.” His eyes are shiny when he leans forward and presses his lips softly against Eliot’s. “Thank you,” he says, pulling back slightly, his breath still warm against Eliot’s face. “For waking me up. Helping me become something better than what I was before.”

Eliot feels a little drunk, like his world is spinning and solidifying all at once, his emotions all over the place as he leans his forehead against Quentin’s. He doesn’t bother trying to fight the tears threatening to spill over as he whispers, “I love you, Q. You weren’t the only one that needed to remember that it can be worth it to take a chance on someone.” He smiles as he adds, “Even if that someone could get your brain wiped.”

Quentin starts to respond with what Eliot thinks is ‘I love you too,’ but his words are lost as Eliot kisses him, gripping his neck with one hand while the other pulls him tight around the waist. They’ve talked enough, and now Eliot just _wants_. He wants Quentin as close as he can get, pressed up against him, moving inside of him. Even as they kiss long and hard, tongues rubbing and teeth clacking, something is scrabbling inside Eliot, clawing to get out, wrap around him and Quentin, engulf them together until all they can smell and taste is each other. He doesn’t want to come up for air until he’s had his fill, and if that’s forever, then fuck it, he’ll die in oblivion and enjoy every second of it.

Quentin breaks away to kiss down Eliot’s neck, and Eliot presses his face into Quentin’s hair. “I missed your smell,” he says, inhaling deeply. “Waking up with you. I got too used to it after the cabin.”

“I want you to get used to it,” Quentin says, moving to lay down on the bed and pulling Eliot with him. “I know you have school, and I’ll have whatever, but you can stay here as often as you want. I’ll even let you decorate.”

“Really?” Eliot says, pulling his head to look up and around the room. “Whatever I want?”

“Within reason,” Quentin says, laughing as he pulls Eliot’s face back down to his. “Now come down here and fuck me. Or ‘make love’ to me, as you promised earlier.”

“You’re such a brat,” Elito says, settling between Quentin’s legs, sliding their cocks together. “You want me inside you?” he asks, leaning down to drag his lips over Quentins. “Did you miss that? My dick filling you up, pushing inside you until you come?”

“Yes,” Quentin says, his hands moving down to cup Eliot’s ass, pulling their hips flush together. “God I thought about it. I want it. Want you to give it to me.” He kisses Eliot, thrusts his tongue into his mouth. 

“I’m gonna give it to you,” Eliot promises, his hands buried in Quentin’s hair as he grips his scalp, holds him in place as he sucks on his bottom lip. “Gonna eat you out, okay?”

Quentin’s response is a nonverbal noise that is half-gasp, half-grunt, which Eliot takes as approval. Eliot pushes up on his hands as he moves down the bed, eyeing Quentin’s hard dick as he settles between Quentin’s thighs. “Are there sound wards on this room, baby?” he asks, sliding his lips around the head of Quentin’s cock.

Quentin moans loudly as Eliot rubs his tongue along the underside of Quentin’s cock, inside the slit, licking up any moisture leaking from the tip. Quentin threads his fingers gently through Eliot’s hair, his other hand gripping Eliot’s shoulder tightly. “Wh—What?” he asks as Eliot pulls off, dropping lower to nuzzle at his balls.

“I asked,” Eliot says, sitting up, smiling at Quentin’s whimper as Eliot moves away from his dick, “Are there sound wards on this room?” Quentin stares up at him with wide eyes, trying to comprehend the words coming out of Eliot’s mouth. 

“I doubt it,” Quentin says, glancing at the door. “Julia probably has wards set up in here so she knows every time I turn over in bed.”

“Well then,” Eliot says, tracing a spell on Quentin’s hips for cleaning and protection, “I hope she’s enjoying the show. Was just wondering if they might come home and hear you getting fucked within an inch of your life.”

Quentin’s mouth goes slack at Eliot’s words and his eyes darken further. “Oh,” Eliot says, flicking his hand out in a tut that slickens his palm with lube, “you like that?” He settles back down, laying a kiss in the crease of Quentin’s inner thigh, right where it joins with his hip, enjoying the slight gasp from Quentin’s lips and the way his body trembles in response. “You want Julia and Kady to come home and hear us?” He caresses Quentin’s balls as he talks, leaning forward so his breath blows over Quentin’s dick, so hard it’s leaning towards his stomach. “Have Professor Adiyodi hear how much you like my cock?”

Eliot frowns as Quentin laughs, pressing his palms into his face. “Oh god please don’t call him that. Right now. Ever. His name is Penny.” He groans, continuing, “Why the fuck are we even talking about him? Please suck my dick before it wilts away.”

Eliot smiles and does as asked, lowering his mouth onto Quentin’s cock, one hand gripping Quentin’s thigh for support while the other searches lower, circling Quentin’s entrance. He takes Quentin in deeper, his dick bumping against the back of Eliot’s throat as he slides one finger inside. 

“ _Fuck_ , Eliot,” Quentin gasps, one hand moving back into Eliot’s curls, his thighs trembling under Eliot’s palm. “Touch me. Give me more.”

Eliot slides off his cock, slowly kissing over Quentin’s hips and thighs as he slides his finger in and out. “You’re tight, baby,” he says. “Gonna have to work you open.”

“You’re gonna need the spell,” Quentin pants. “I haven’t had anything up there since—well, you, the last time.”

Eliot hums, thinking back to when he’d last fucked Quentin. It was a couple days before classes started this term, right before Quentin’s mom died and everything went to shit. The campus had still been mostly empty and Quentin slept over at the Cottage. Eliot had woken up with his hard cock nestled right against Quentin’s ass. Quentin’s eyes had blinked open, and he’d stretched his arms above his head and pressed back against Eliot, and it had been no trouble for Eliot to pull Quentin apart and slip right inside, thrusting into him lazily in the morning sunlight.

“That long? Since you’ve had anything inside you like this?” He slides in a second finger, enjoying the clench of Quentin’s tight muscle. He looks up to see Quentin pressing his head back against the pillow, his hand slipping out of Eliot’s hair to grab and twist at the bedspread. “Sounds like a challenge.”

He pulls his fingers out, and before Quentin can moan his displeasure, replaces them with his tongue, licking over his entrance and sliding into the heat of him. Quentin immediately pushes back against his tongue, wanting more, deeper, and Eliot holds him in place, strong hands pressing his thighs up and open until Eliot has just the angle he needs.

Quentin’s dick bobs above Eliot as he squirms, panting and babbling. The sounds pouring out of Quentin’s mouth and the taste of him go straight to Eliot’s dick, and he has to stop himself from grinding down into the mattress to chase his own relief. The longer he tongues at Quentin, licking around his rim, thrusting into his hole, the harder he gets; wetness is already leaking down the side of his cock.

He pulls away, sliding in two fingers, moving back up to Quentin so he can slip his tongue into Quentin’s mouth as he scissors Quentin open. Quentin immediately grabs his face, one hand dragging down his back as Eliot adds a third finger, nearly desperate with the need to press inside Quentin, to feel that slick muscle tight and pulsating around his dick.

“Ready?” Eliot asks, hoping to god Quentin says yes because he’s going to break something if he doesn’t get inside him right this fucking second.

Quentin nods, his face damp, his eyes so wide and dark that if he didn’t know any better, Eliot would think he was on something. “You good, Q?” Eliot asks again, slowing his fingers.

“Yes,” Quentin responds, nodding more forcefully. “I’m just—a little overwhelmed. It’s okay,” he rushes on, probably because of the worry that Eliot knows must be on his face. “I love you, and. It’s a lot, feeling so much. At once. It’s a lot, but it’s so fucking good, Eliot.” He presses up into another kiss, and pulls back. “I’m so ready, please baby.”

Eliot nods, pulling his fingers free and replacing them with the head of his cock, teasing it over Quentin’s entrance, watching as Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head. He pulls back slightly, tutting more lube into his palm that he slicks all over his cock, and then he presses forward with intention.

The first push in is intense, tighter and heavier than Eliot can ever remember it being, the headiness of being so close to someone as you slip inside, past the taut ring of muscle and into the velvet soft heat of Quentin. A guttural moan slips out Eliot’s lips as he slides in another inch, and then pulls back, gently thrusting in.

“T—Tell me,” Eliot pants, holding himself up on his elbow, his legs bent so he can get leverage to push, “if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” Quentin says, his breathing fast and urgent. “It’s so much Eliot, you’re so big, but it’s so fucking good. Please don’t stop, keep going, fuck me, I wanna feel you everywhere.”

Eliot nods, letting his head fall against Quentin’s shoulder, as he moves inside him, gently thrusting a little more each time, until he’s buried to the hilt, their hips flush together, Quentin’s cock trapped between them. 

Quentin’s arms wrap around Eliot, one hand buried in Eliot’s hair and the other gripping his back as Eliot starts to move, setting a slow rhythm. It’s timeless and effortless, how they move part and come back together, again and again, kissing and whispering to each other, promises of tonight and tomorrow. Because now they have them. As many as they want.

When Eliot comes, it’s not a lightning strike or an earthquake. It’s soft waves crashing on shore, violent and beautiful all at once, one after the other, flooding him with warmth and a certainty he never thought he’d find in his life. Here, in Quentin’s arms, he’s weightless and immovable, almost overwhelmed with the power of the emotions surging through his veins. 

When Quentin comes a few moments later, Eliot watches his face, seeing the same love he feels shining back at him in Quentin’s eyes.

After, when they’re both sweaty and sated, Eliot laying on his stomach, Quentin on his side, Eliot is nearly asleep when Quentin’s hand runs over Eliot’s back. 

“Your tattoo,” he says. “There’s no more magic.” Eliot opens his eyes fully as Quentin traces the mark on his back. “You let the cacodemon out?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, enjoying the feel of Quentin’s fingers on his skin. He thinks back to the night he’d done it, the splitting pain down his back as the demon had practically leapt out of him. “After I got your letters, I was walking by the Van Pelt fountain one night going back to the Cottage, and I just… didn’t want it in my skin anymore. It hurt, but only for a second, and it jumped right into the fountain and disappeared. It was pretty cool-looking though, this yellow and black banded thing that looked _dangerous_.” He reaches over, pushing Quentin’s hair behind his ear. “I might get the tattoo altered. I don’t like the thought of you looking at it.”

Quentin's face crumples as he turns over onto his back, a hand coming up to his face to cover his eyes. _Oh, shit._ “I’m sorry,” Eliot says, wide awake now, sliding over and wrapping an arm around Quentin’s waist. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“You didn’t,” Q says, his voice cracking. “Shit,” he says, sniffling, laughing as he tries to get a hold of himself. “I really fucking love you.”

“I love you too,” Eliot says, smiling, even as worry still bubbles inside. “You sure you’re okay?”

Quentin wipes his eyes, setting his hand on Eliot’s arm and turning his face towards him. “I get to sleep next to you tonight and wake up to you in the morning. I don’t have to sneak out before sunrise, worry about getting fired, or decide if my clothes reek enough of pot or liquor for me to have to wash them. I’m the best I’ve been in a long time.”

He reaches across Eliot, turning off the bedside lamp. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Eliot reaches for him in the dark bedroom, pulling him close for a kiss. It’s slow and sweet, full of love and promise. Eliot lays on his back, Quentin throwing a leg over Eliot’s and an arm over his waist. Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s shoulder, tucking him under his chin.

“Sleep well, love,” Eliot says.

“I always do, with you,” Quentin whispers, already drifting off.

~~~

tbc in Chapter 17: Conclusion - The Future Remains Optimistic for Two Idiots In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we've gone full sappy romcom ending here. Hope you enjoyed. :D


	17. Conclusion - The Future Remains Optimistic for Two Idiots In Love

_Quentin_

“Was it this cold last year?” 

Quentin glances back over his shoulder, smiling as Eliot snuggles under the blanket, under which he’s wearing a thermal shirt, a sweater, and a cardigan, along with a scarf slung around his neck.

“It was,” Quentin says, nudging the logs in the fire pit before he turns back, sitting in the wooden chaise lounge that he’d magically extended to fit both of them. It’s just as comfortable as it was last year, thanks to the Eliot-shaped body pillow Quentin has next to him.

“Come on.” Quentin pulls the blanket over them, snuggling up against Eliot’s chest, pressing one knee between Eliot’s thighs. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Eliot wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss into his scalp. It’s a quiet night, the silence only broken by the sound of their breathing, the water flowing in the nearby creek, and the soft coos of owls in the nearby trees. A nearly full moon shines above them, and the sky is full of stars so brilliant Quentin thinks they turned their sparkle up to max just for them.

It had been Eliot’s idea to come back to the cabin again. “For our anniversary,” he’d said, curled up next to Quentin in bed. “One year since you blew me in the back of a nightclub. You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”

Kady made a few calls, and they were booked, though they would be back in the city for the actual New Year’s Eve. Margo wasn’t willing to let go of Eliot for another one, especially since they won’t be seeing much of each other after graduation. Margo’s landed a job in Paris—some fashion gig for a magician designer she’d met at this year’s Encanto. Eliot and Quentin had attended as well, though they’d never met the designer—they were too occupied in other activities. Like seeing how many dicks Quentin could fit in his body at once time (the answer, to his disappointment, was three, damn the human body and it’s flexibility limitations that even magic had it’s limits on), or how many cocks Eliot could wrap his hand around at once (also three, for same reasons stated above).

Tonight was their last night at the cabin; tomorrow they’d hitch the portal back to New York and celebrate the new year at the penthouse. Kady and Julia were throwing a party, which they had ‘allowed’ Eliot to help plan. When he wasn’t finishing up his thesis, studying for finals, or falling into bed with Quentin, he was finalizing the menu and planning decorations and basically coercing Kady until she finally threw up her hands and said “Do whatever the fuck you want! As long as we have the little cheese things wrapped in bacon and it doesn’t cost a fortune, cover the place in glitter for all I care.”

Julia’s eyes had widened and she’d stuttered, “Uh, babe? Glitter?” Eliot had nodded and said very seriously, “Define fortune.” Quentin had smiled at them from his spot on the couch where he was petting the cat they had adopted a few months prior, Nickel (the cat's actual name was Antiope, but Quentin had taken one look at her gray fur when Kady had brought her home and proclaimed her Nickel, and the name had stuck, no matter how much Penny glared).

The past few days had been glorious. They’d slept in every day, watched way too much TV, fucked in the hot tub, gone back to that same tapas restaurant they’d had their first ‘real’ date at and the dance club (yep, invisibility ward was still there, and they made use of it again before Quentin took it down), and even fucked on the white rug in front of the fire. (Eliot said the experience was just as amazing in real life as it had been in his head, despite the fact that he came away with rug burn on both of his knees and his ass, thanks to that ‘cheap synthetic fur.’)

For their last night, they opted to stay in front of the fire pit and enjoy the beauty of the mountainous woods that surrounded them on all sides. As Quentin rests his head against Eliot’s shoulder, taking in the gorgeous sky stretched out over them, he can’t help but think of all that had changed since they were last here.

He was still living with Kady and Julia, _and_ also Penny. And Nickel (who was worth five of Penny; just another reason for the nickname). Even though the penthouse was stupid huge by NYC standards, it was starting to feel a little cramped. While Quentin would never get tired of seeing Eliot’s dick, he was pretty sure Penny was going to make it a personal mission to see Eliot flunk out if he caught another glimpse of it at 3AM when they both were stumbling to the bathroom.

Which, Penny’s supposed to be like _the most experienced_ psychic on the continent, he should see Eliot coming. _Cry me a fuckin’ river._

Quentin isn’t going to say he fell right back into teaching, even though he literally did by busting his ass when he walked into his first seminar in brand-new shiny shoes that Eliot insisted he needed to ‘strike the right tone.’ He was just as nervous standing in front of a dozen hedges in a run-down, spartan meeting room as he had been years earlier in a polished classroom at Brakebills. Over the past several months, he’d stretched his magical legs in ways he’d never thought possible—by teaching nearly anything and everything. Basic poppers, circumstances, physical magic, meta-comp, even a few natural magic charms (thanks to Josh and his never-ending helpfulness, even to ex-professors that were at least partly responsible for the campus crackdown on illicit substances).

His years teaching at Brakebills had made him confident in his magic, but now it was like he was embracing it in a whole new way. He’d always be at his best with a broken item in his hands, but he was slowly figuring out that he’s actually good at shit beyond mending vases and shattered clocks. He can heal minor wounds, create a flower in the palm of his hand, ward a room like a motherfucker, and even set up a temporary portal, given the right materials and at least eight hours. 

He’s gotten out of rehab in April. Started working with Kady and ‘officially’ dating Eliot in May. Now it was eight months later, and Quentin’s life has fallen into a comfortable routine.

Even despite his best efforts to fuck it up.

He was in the outside world exactly 31 days before he fell back on old habits. Longer than he expected, if he was being honest with himself. Which was probably part of the problem.

He had gotten into an argument with Julia that morning over leaving his shit all over the front room; she’d apparently forgotten he could be a slob and he’d forgotten she was a neurotic freak that apparently felt it was important to be able to eat off every fucking surface in the apartment. That was on top of an argument he’d had with Eliot the night before—Margo was portalling over to Australia for some summer/winter solstice event and wanted Eliot to go with her. 

_“I—do you think we’re ready for that? Or you are? I know how those festivals go, Eliot, booze and pills around every corner. It won’t be like Encanto where you can just spell away the shit you don’t want to see.” Quentin sat down on his bed, elbows on his knees as Eliot buttoned up his shirt._

_“It’ll be a challenge, yes. But Q—Margo and I haven’t had real time together in a while. Not since—” He broke off, glancing to the ground._

_“Not since I came back around, right? Look, I don’t want to get in the way of your friendship, you know that. I just want you to think about your recovery—”_

_Eliot rolled his eyes, irritation flashing over his face as he jammed his feet in his shoes. “I think about it every fucking day, Q. I’ve been sober for five months, on my own, surpassing everyone’s expectations.” He shook his head, standing up. “You know, not all of us can just check in to a clinic our friends pay for when we’re feeling a little jittery.”_

_Quentin inhaled sharply, looking down to the ground, shame swirling in his gut. Eliot’s right, he’s nowhere near as strong as he is. Probably never will be._

_He felt Eliot’s eyes on his, heard his sharp intake of breath as he realized the words that left his mouth. He stepped towards Quentin, one hand reaching out for his arm. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”_

_Quentin shook off his hand, standing up and walking to the other side of his bedroom. He looked at the framed picture on his desk, one of the ones Julia had brought him at the clinic. Him and Eliot, smiling together, hair disheveled, laying in bed. Shaking his head, he said, “You wanna go, go. Do whatever the fuck you want wherever you want. God knows you’d rather be there anyway.”_

_There’s silence for a moment, and then Eliot said, “What the fuck does that mean?”_

_“Nothing. Just fucking go. You have class in the morning, and I have—shit to do.”_

_Quentin flinched as the door slammed, echoing throughout the apartment._

There was radio silence between them that night and the next day, because fuck maturity.

And apparently fuck healthy coping mechanisms as well, because after he worked at the safe house, instead of calling Eliot and saying _I’m sorry, I’m an asshole, let’s talk it out_ he followed his feet to the nearest bar where he had a shot of the shittiest, most delicious tequila he’d ever tasted. It had burned just the right way as it streamed down his throat, and he’d hardly swallowed it down when he was asking for another. He’d gotten three deep before he realized just how badly he was fucking up.

He stumbled out of the bar, already tipsy because his tolerance was nonexistent, and vomited on the sidewalk. Tears streaming down his face as he texted Kady, and she’d showed up within minutes.

He portaled over to the clinic to see Dr. King the next day, sat in on a group session, hugged it out with Julia, fucked it out with Eliot, and recommitted himself to his sobriety. He was back on his feet.

And then October rolled around.

He hadn’t even realized it was the day until it was _the day_. Then the guilt came crashing back, that he was so wrapped up in his amazing life that he fucking _forgot_ about his dead girlfriend. And he couldn’t even visit the fountain, like he usually did, because he was fucking banned.

Julia and Eliot came for him that time. Nearly passed out on Alice’s grave, empty whiskey bottle next to him.

It’s been 77 days since that night. He’d gone back to the clinic for a week, to kind of reset himself. And little by little, every day became easier than the last. He didn’t dream more often than he did, and those dreams were tame compared to what they once were. It’s still not easy, by any means, but… easier.

He nuzzles closer against Eliot, the watch in his pocket shifting with the movement. Eliot had given it to him a few days ago, for Christmas—a shiny silver pocket watch. Complete with a summoning spell and an engraving on the back— _El & Q_. 

_“From your happy place dream? I know it’s a little clichè, and definitely not as amazing as a trip to London to see the Globe—Q? Q, are you okay?”_

_Quentin pressed his palms to his eyes, unable to stop the sobs building up in this throat. “It’s perfect,” he gasped as Eliot’s strong arms wrapped around him._

_“Oh, baby,” Eliot whispered, pressing his lips to the top of Quentin’s head. “I love you. And I promise, I won’t smash this one and make you help me mend it. Not even once.”_

“Can’t believe it’s been a year since we were last here,” Eliot says, one hand shoving under the bottom of Quentin’s sweater to rest on his bare waist. His hand is cold, and Quentin shivers as Eliot squeezes lightly, his fingertips already warming against Quentin’s skin.

“Best year of my life,” Quentin says simply, tilting his head up. Eliot looks down at him, a slight smile on his lips.

“Yeah?” he asks softly. “Mine too.” He leans down for a kiss, Quentin humming contentedly. “And I think they’re just gonna keep getting better.”

“I hope so,” Quentin sighs. They lay in silence for a moment, and then Eliot’s body tenses slightly beneath Quentin, his breath hitching. Quentin’s head is lying just above Eliot’s heart, and he frowns in concern as it suddenly starts thudding faster.

“You okay?” Quentin asks, tilting his head to look at Eliot. He’s staring up at the sky, the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly, even as his heart continues the quick _thump thump thump_ against his chest..

“I was thinking,” Eliot says, looking towards the fire, “about when I graduate.”

Quentin waits, his own pulse starting to accelerate. They haven’t discussed that far into the future; they have enough to deal with in the present with covens and theses and sobriety and just generally keeping themselves alive.

“I think I’m going to stay in the city. Well, I know I will. I told you I’ve sent out a few feelers for some kind of gainful employment post-Brakebills, and I think at least one will pan out. So maybe we could get a place. For you and me. Let Julia and Kady and Penny live out their polyamory dreams in peace.” Eliot is talking mainly to the fire, his hand still warm on Quentin’s hip, gripping firmly. He doesn’t turn his gaze to Quentin until he’s done speaking, and the anxiety in his eyes makes Quentin’s heart, the one he once swore was too full of holes to ever love again, overflow.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, smiling, tears already forming in his eyes, _christ_ , he still cries way too much. “I would love that. God, I want that. I was thinking the same thing, but I wasn’t sure—I know I’ve had some setbacks, and I didn’t know—”

“Q,” Eliot says, the hand on Quentin’s hip moving up to cup his cheek. “I told you,” Eliot whispers, pressing his lips gently against Quentin’s, “I’m all fucking in. No matter what.”

Quentin reaches for him, hands sliding into his curls, pressing his mouth hard against Eliot’s, like he can imprint his love on Eliot’s lips. “I love you,” he says, pulling back just enough to whisper the words before kissing him again.

“I love you,” Eliot whispers back, pulling Quentin into a firm hug, pressing his nose against Quentin’s neck. “So much,” he says, muffled against Quentin’s skin.

They kiss and hold each other until the fire has burned down to coals, talking and laughing about the future, laying under the thick blanket of the night sky, dotted with stars sparkling down at them.

The same stars that were there last year. That will be there for the rest of their lives. Together.

~~~

Quentin pulls a handful of books out of the box, muttering under his breath as he sorts them into the various piles haphazardly scattered around the floor. Only two boxes to go and he should be able to shelve them. Whether they’ll all fit is a problem for future Quentin.

The late afternoon sun shines into the living room of their small apartment. After a lot of debating and discussion, and the help of Kady’s (and some of Quentin’s) hedge connections, they’d found a two-bedroom in Brooklyn with a small balcony, a kitchen nowhere near large enough for Eliot’s liking, and enough natural light that they could grow their own garden right in the bedroom. 

They’d ‘moved in’ two days ago, but those two days had consisted of way too much fucking and nowhere near enough unpacking. Quentin is due back at the safehouse tomorrow, and while he can take as much time as he wants, he hates to leave Kady in the lurch because he can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

He can hear Eliot humming from the other room as he unpackes his clothes, and Quentin tosses the box he just emptied onto the pile to be broken down. He catches a glimpse of his alumni key sitting on the countertop next to his keys, and he smiles as he remembers getting it from Henry just last week.

_“It’ll be nice seeing you around campus again.”_

_The key was cool to the touch, and Quentin wrapped his fingers around it briefly before he shoved it in his pocket. He breathed out a sigh, surprised how a piece of him settled at having the key, the access to this place that was such a huge part of his life, back again._

_“Thank you, Henry. I know you didn’t have to do this. I appreciate it.”_

_They walked together through the portal, and Quentin blinked as Brakebills, the same as it was in his memory, spread out in front of him. He and Henry were walking across the Sea to where the commencement ceremony would be taking place when Henry pulled on Quentin’s arm. He pointed over to a spot of grass near the edge of the forest, next to the infirmary, where a new building was being constructed._

_“The Shatner Center for Therapeutic Magic is nearly complete. It will have classrooms for those choosing to study mentally restorative therapies, as well as a mental health clinic for all students and staff.” Henry peered down at Quentin, whose mouth was open as he stared at the construction._

_“Shatner??” he stuttered. “Like—”_

_“Yes,” Henry replied, amused. “Had to get funding somewhere. After you told me about your stay at the clinic, I made a few calls. Apparently he likes having his name on the building. Which is fine with me as long as it’s also on the checks.”_

_After Quentin regained his composure, he turned to Henry. “This is amazing. Really. This will save lives, Henry. And decrease the number of scandals on campus by like, half. At least.”_

Even through all the excitement of Eliot and Margo’s graduation, including the epic bon voyage party at the Cottage (which had reclaimed it’s party crown, partly in thanks to the Illusionists needing the Physical Kids help when they demolished half the castle with a set of fireworks during their end-of-summer festivities), the tearful goodbye with Margo (they were planning on installing a portal to Paris in their apartment ASAP), and the excitement of moving in together, Quentin still found time to worry about living with Eliot, the same way he worried about everything in his life. The only time he’d ever come close to living with a significant other was the Cottage with Alice, and it was way easier to avoid someone there than it was when you had to share the same bed with them every night.

So far it was the exact domestic bliss Quentin was promised. The day they’d signed the lease, Eliot had insisted they go back to the empty apartment for “one last look,” where he’d blown Quentin against the front door. The bed was the first thing they set up on day one, because they needed a place to sleep that night, of course, although they didn’t actually fall asleep until the sun was rising the next morning. 

There haven’t been any arguments over what goes where, as Quentin is content to let Eliot have his way as long as Quentin got his bookshelves and at least some wall space in their bedroom.

Julia had cried the day he moved out; even Kady had looked a little misty-eyed as they’d hugged when Quentin made his last trip for his belongings from the penthouse. He’d reminded her he was just a subway train away (or a portal, but Quentin wasn’t sure Eliot would be willing to give up _two_ closets to portals).

Penny had surprised Quentin; he’d hugged both him and Eliot, and he’d even looked a little misty when he’d told Eliot, “Call me Penny, man.” It was shocking really. Apparently getting laid regularly by two women he didn’t deserve softened Penny up a little. Or a lot.

Quentin has just started shelving the books when he hears Eliot call out from the bedroom.

“Hey, Q, weren’t you looking for your Brakebills notes a while back?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says distractedly. “Some notes from my classes that I wanted for the coven meetings.”

“This box has a bunch of your papers from Brakebills; they’re probably in here.”

“Thanks,” Quentin calls back. “You can leave it by the dresser.” He hears the shuffling of papers, and the thud of a box hitting the floor.

“This one has my name on it,” Eliot calls out. “And my dick?” Quentin freezes, staring at the books in his hands. What—

“It’s a… pro/con list?” Eliot says, confusion evident in his voice. Then he starts laughing. 

_Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Note: Whelp. I created the outline doc for this fic at the end of July 2020, and here we are, seven months and 200k later crossing the finish line. Thank you for coming on this journey with me where I challenged myself to:
> 
>   * Explore angst.
>   * Write a sexual fast burn/emotional slow burn
>   * Generate a somewhat-original plot and follow a story/emotional arc from start to finish.
> 

> 
> Not sure how successfully I completed these goals, but I learned a shit ton, made a lot of friends, and had a good time writing this. I’ll be working on my Big Bang next, and then it’s one-shot city. Long fics are nice but damn they are long.
> 
> Things that now exist in this fic that did not exist when I outlined it:
> 
>   * The Romeo & Juliet references (Hoko pointed it out/encouraged it)
>   * The summoning spell on the pocket watch
>   * Penny & Sunderland breaking up and Penny hooking up with Julia & Kady
>   * Penny & Eliot’s tentative friendship.
>   * Our Kitty Underground
>   * The cabin chapter was originally envisioned as “sex montage.”
> 

> 
> This fic wouldn’t be near what it is without my amazing friends and betas, Hoko, Aud, Mixtapestar, and Tay. Their suggestions, tweaks, and artwork made me push myself out of my comfort zone, and I will be forever grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> My inspiration album for this fic is [here](https://imgur.com/a/yNdKKUC).
> 
> Please find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rubickk7) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Rubick71).


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